The Indiscreet Letter | Page 3

got jollying a bit in the
first place about the amount of perfectly senseless, no-account truck
that'll collect in a fellow's pockets; and then some sort of a scorched
piece of paper he had, or something, got him telling me about a nasty,
sizzling close call he had to-day with a live wire; and then I got telling
him here about a friend of mine--and a mighty good fellow, too--who
dropped dead on the street one day last summer with an unaddressed,
typewritten letter in his pocket that began 'Dearest Little Rosie,' called

her a 'Honey' and a 'Dolly Girl' and a 'Pink-Fingered Precious,' made a
rather foolish dinner appointment for Thursday in New Haven, and was
signed--in the Lord's own time--at the end of four pages, 'Yours forever,
and then some. TOM.'--Now the wife of the deceased was
named--Martha."
Quite against all intention, the Youngish Girl's laughter rippled out
explosively and caught up the latent amusement in the Young
Electrician's face. Then, just as unexpectedly, she wilted back a little
into her seat.
"I don't call that an 'indiscreet letter'!" she protested almost resentfully.
"You might call it a knavish letter. Or a foolish letter. Because either a
knave or a fool surely wrote it! But 'indiscreet'? U-m-m, No!"
"Well, for heaven's sake!" said the Traveling Salesman.
"If--you--don't--call--that--an--indiscreet letter, what would you call
one?"
"Yes, sure," gasped the Young Electrician, "what would you call one?"
The way his lips mouthed the question gave an almost tragical purport
to it.
"What would I call an 'indiscreet letter'?" mused the Youngish Girl
slowly. "Why--why--I think I'd call an 'indiscreet letter' a letter that was
pretty much--of a gamble perhaps, but a letter that was perfectly,
absolutely legitimate for you to send, because it would be your own
interests and your own life that you were gambling with, not the
happiness of your wife or the honor of your husband. A letter, perhaps,
that might be a trifle risky--but a letter, I mean, that is absolutely on the
square!"
"But if it's absolutely 'on the square,'" protested the Traveling Salesman,
worriedly, "then where in creation does the 'indiscreet' come in?"
The Youngish Girl's jaw dropped. "Why, the 'indiscreet' part comes in,"
she argued, "because you're not able to prove in advance, you know,
that the stakes you're gambling for are absolutely 'on the square.' I don't

know exactly how to express it, but it seems somehow as though only
the very little things of Life are offered in open packages--that all the
big things come sealed very tight. You can poke them a little and make
a guess at the shape, and you can rattle them a little and make a guess at
the size, but you can't ever open them and prove them--until the money
is paid down and gone forever from your hands. But goodness me!" she
cried, brightening perceptibly; "if you were to put an advertisement in
the biggest newspaper in the biggest city in the world, saying: 'Every
person who has ever written an indiscreet letter in his life is hereby
invited to attend a mass-meeting'--and if people would really go--you'd
see the most distinguished public gathering that you ever saw in your
life! Bishops and Judges and Statesmen and Beautiful Society Women
and Little Old White-Haired Mothers--everybody, in fact, who had ever
had red blood enough at least once in his life to write down in cold
black and white the one vital, quivering, questioning fact that happened
to mean the most to him at that moment! But your 'Honey' and your
'Dolly Girl' and your 'Pink-Fingered Precious' nonsense! Why, it isn't
real! Why, it doesn't even make sense!"
Again the Youngish Girl's laughter rang out in light, joyous, utterly
superficial appreciation.
Even the serious Traveling Salesman succumbed at last.
"Oh, yes, I know it sounds comic," he acknowledged wryly. "Sounds
like something out of a summer vaudeville show or a cheap Sunday
supplement. But I don't suppose it sounded so specially blamed comic
to the widow. I reckon she found it plenty-heap indiscreet enough to
suit her. Oh, of course," he added hastily, "I know, and Martha knows
that Thomkins wasn't at all that kind of a fool. And yet, after all--when
you really settle right down to think about it, Thomkins' name was
easily 'Tommy,' and Thursday sure enough was his day in New Haven,
and it was a yard of red flannel that Martha had asked him to bring
home to her--not the scarlet automobile veil that they found in his
pocket. But 'Martha,' I says, of course, 'Martha, it sure does beat all
how we fellows that travel round so much in cars and trains are always
and forever picking up automobile veils--dozens of them, dozens--red,

blue, pink, yellow--why, I wouldn't wonder if my wife had