“You know my mother came from France,” said the small member of the club.  “She arrived in this country when she was about sixteen years of age, coming with an uncle, who was her guardian.  My uncle’s name was Pierre Dunrot, and he was by profession a teacher of ancient history.”

“No wonder you always get your history lessons so easily,” was Whopper’s comment.  “It must run in the blood.”

“You keep quiet, Whopper, and let Giant tell us about this money,” interposed Snap.

“After my mother was in this country about six years, she met my father and married him.  My uncle approved of the match, although he told my mother he wished she had married a Frenchman instead of an American.  They all went to live at a place called Watchville on the seacoast.  My uncle was then writing a great work on ancient history to be issued in ten big volumes.”

“Phew!  I hope he didn’t want any fellows to study it,” murmured the doctor’s son.

“Mother has told me that my uncle was all right in his mind while I was a little boy and when my father was alive.  But after my father died Uncle Pierre grew kind of queer in his head.  My mother thought it was too much study and she advised him to take a rest.  But he said he must get his big history written and he kept on writing and burning the midnight oil as college fellows call it, and it made him queerer and queerer every day.

“One day he went to the post-office for his mail.  That was when I was about nine years old.  When he got back he began to dance around and he caught me by the hands and rushed around the house like a crazy man.  ’A hundred thousand francs!  A hundred thousand francs!’ he kept calling out, over and over again.  Then my mother asked him what he meant.  He said a distant relative had died and left him and her a hundred thousand francs.”

“How much is that?” asked Whopper, who knew little about French money.

“A franc is worth about nineteen cents,” said Snap.

“Yes, and a hundred thousand francs is about nineteen thousand dollars,” went on Giant.  “My mother tried to get the particulars from Uncle Pierre, but he was so excited she could not, excepting that half the money was coming to himself and half to her.  He said he would see about it the next day.

“That night there came a violent thunderstorm and our house was struck by lightning.  The only damage done was to one corner in which was located Uncle Pierre’s writing desk.  The desk was ripped apart by the lightning bolt and some of his precious manuscripts were burnt.

“When my uncle discovered that part of his great historical work had been destroyed he acted as if he was insane.  He was almost on the point of committing suicide, but my mother stopped him.  She told him to remember about his good fortune in having all that money left to him, but he only shook his head and said he would rather have his manuscripts back.  At last she got him to bed, but in the morning he had disappeared.”