The Fourth "R"
Copyright© 2025 by George O. Smith
Chapter 5
Jimmy had less scout work to do and no school to attend; he was too small to help in the sorting of car parts and too valuable to be tossed out. He was in the way.
So he was in Jake’s office when the mail came. He brought the bundle to Jake’s desk and sat on a box, sorting the circulars and catalogs from the first class. Halfway down the pile was a long envelope addressed to Jimmy James.
He dropped the rest with a little yelp. Jake eyed him quickly and snatched the letter out of Jimmy’s hands.
“Hey! That’s mine!” said Jimmy. Jake shoved him away.
“Who’s writing you?” demanded Jake.
“It’s mine!” cried Jimmy.
“Shut up!” snapped Jake, unfolding the letter. “I read all the mail that comes here first.”
“But—”
“Shut your mouth and your teeth’ll stay in,” said Jake flatly. He separated a green slip from the letter and held the two covered while he read. “Well, well,” he said. “Our little Shakespeare!” With a disdainful grunt Jake tossed the letter to Jimmy.
Eagerly, Jimmy took the letter and read:
Dear Mr. James:
We regret the unconscionable length of time between your submission and this reply. However, the fact that this reply is favorable may be its own apology. We are enclosing a check for $20.00 with the following explanation:
Our policy is to reject all work written in dialect. At the best we request the author to rewrite the piece in proper English and frame his effect by other means. Your little story is not dialect, nor is it bad literarily, the framework’s being (as it is) a fairly good example of a small boy’s relating in the first person one of his adventures, using for the first time his father’s typewriter. But you went too far. I doubt that even a five-year-old would actually make as many typographical errors.
However, we found the idea amusing, therefore our payment. One of our editors will work your manuscript into less-erratic typescript for eventual publication.
Please continue to think of us in the future, but don’t corn up your script with so many studied blunders.
Sincerely,
Joseph Brandon, editor,
Boy’s Magazine.
“Gee,” breathed Jimmy, “a check!”
Jake laughed roughly. “Shakespeare,” he roared. “Don’t corn up your stuff! You put too many errors in! Wow!”
Jimmy’s eyes began to burn. He had no defense against this sarcasm. He wanted praise for having accomplished something, instead of raucous laughter.
“I wrote it,” he said lamely.
“Oh, go away!” roared Jake.
Jimmy reached for the check.
“Scram,” said Jake, shutting his laughter off instantly.
“It’s mine!” cried Jimmy.
Jake paused, then laughed again. “Okay, smart kid. Take it and spend it!” He handed the check to Jimmy Holden.
Jimmy took it quickly and left.
He wanted to eye it happily, to gloat over it, to turn it over and over and to read it again and again; but he wanted to do it in private.
He took it with him to the nearest bank, feeling its folded bulk and running a fingernail along the serrated edge.
He re-read it in the bank, then went to a teller’s window. “Can you cash this, please?” he asked.
The teller turned it over. “It isn’t endorsed.”
“I can’t reach the desk to sign it,” complained Jimmy.
“Have you an account here?” asked the teller politely.
“Well, no sir.”
“Any identification?”
“No—no sir,” said Jimmy thoughtfully. Not a shred of anything did he have to show who he was under either name.
“Who is this Jimmy James?” asked the teller.
“Me. I am.”
The teller smiled. “And you wrote a short story that sold to Boy’s Magazine?” he asked with a lifted eyebrow. “That’s pretty good for a little guy like you.”
“Yes sir.”
The teller looked over Jimmy’s head; Jimmy turned to look up at one of the bank’s policemen. “Tom, what do you make of this?”
The policeman shrugged. He stooped down to Jimmy’s level. “Where did you get this check, young fellow?” he asked gently.
“It came in the mail this morning.”
“You’re Jimmy James?”
“Yes sir.” Jimmy Holden had been called that for more than half a year; his assent was automatic.
“How old are you, young man?” asked the policeman kindly.
“Five and a half.”
“Isn’t that a bit young to be writing stories?”
Jimmy bit his lip. “I wrote it, though.”
The policeman looked up at the teller with a wink. “He can tell a good yarn,” chuckled the policeman. “Shouldn’t wonder if he could write one.”
The teller laughed and Jimmy’s eyes burned again. “It’s mine,” he insisted.
“If it’s yours,” said the policeman quietly, “we can settle it fast enough. Do your folks have an account here?”
“No sir.”
“Hmmm. That makes it tough.”
Brightly, Jimmy asked, “Can I open an account here?”
“Why, sure you can,” said the policeman. “All you have to do is to bring your parents in.”
“But I want the money,” wailed Jimmy.
“Jimmy James,” explained the policeman with a slight frown to the teller, “we can’t cash a check without positive identification. Do you know what positive identification means?”
“Yes sir. It means that you’ve got to be sure that this is me.”
“Right! Now, those are the rules. Now, of course, you don’t look like the sort of young man who would tell a lie. I’ll even bet your real name is Jimmy James, Jr. But you see, we have no proof, and our boss will be awful mad at us if we break the rules and cash this check without following the rules. The rules, Jimmy James, aren’t to delay nice, honest people, but to stop people from making mistakes. Mistakes such as taking a little letter out of their father’s mailbox. If we cashed that check, then it couldn’t be put back in father’s mailbox without anybody knowing about it. And that would be real bad.”
“But it’s mine!”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.