"This may be worth ten cents to some collector if we're lucky--"
"Rupert! That's real money," began Ricky.
But Val, too, had seen the print. "Confederate money, child. As useless
now as our pretty oil stock. I told you that things always turn out
wrong in this house. If we do find treasure, it's worthless. How much is
there, anyway?"
Rupert picked up a slip of paper tucked under the tape fastening the
first bundle. "This says thirty-five thousand--profit from a blockade
runner's trip."
"Thirty-five thousand! Well, I think that that is just too much," Ricky
said defiantly. "Why didn't they get paid in real money?"
"Being loyal to the South, the Ralestones probably would not take what
you call 'real money,'" replied Charity.
"It's nice to know how wealthy we once were," Val observed. "What are
you going to do with that wall-paper, Rupert?"
"Oh, chuck it in my desk. I'll get someone to look it over; there might
be a collector's item among these bills. Now let's have the joker out of
_this_ bundle." He plucked at the fastenings of the felt bag.
When he had pulled off its wrappings, a silver tray with coffee- and
chocolate-pot, cream pitcher and sugar bowl stood, tarnished and dingy,
on the floor.
"That's more like it." Ricky picked up the chocolate-pot. "Do you
suppose it will ever be possible to get these clean again?"
"With a lot of will power and some good hard rubbing it can be done,"
Val assured her.
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