The Truth Revealed

Twelve moons had rolled by since the Gramps funeral. The bluegrass sod had already grown quite snugly over the year-old mound in the cemetery back of the white church on the hill. The rose bush at the head of the mound had bloomed once and the June breeze had sprinkled its pink petals over the green carpet. A more or less expensive tombstone stood modestly at the head of the mound and silently announced to the passer-by what any tombstone is supposed to announce, namely that somebody sleeps beneath this mound. During the year many persons had stood with bared heads and read through tears this inscription:

J. D. Gramps
Born April 21, 1856
Died June 13, 18—
“They may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them.”* (Revelation 14:13)

The Gramps premises began to show signs of decay. The fences were in need of repair and the hillside portions of the farm had been washed in gullies by the spring freshets. A large ash heap surrounded by jimsonweed and burdock marked the sight of the once beautiful red barn. The front-yard gate had been torn from its hinges, and it lay upon the ground.

It was well known that Widow Gramps had received ten thousand dollars from an insurance company in New York City, but what she had done with the amount was only a matter of opinion. Along about this time it became known in the community that the Widow had leased the farm and was planning to go to a Western State as she said, for the sake of her health, which had been declining since the day of the Deacon’s funeral.

One day when Mrs. Gramps was in Dobbinsville making preparations for the trip West, she called at the People’s State Bank and presented a check drawn on a Western bank and signed by James Duncan. When the cashier had cashed her check and she had left the bank, he turned to his assistant and said, “Jim, do you know what Deacon Gramps’ name was?”

“J. D. Gramps,” responded the assistant.

“I know J. D. were his initials,” said the cashier, “but what does J. D. stand for?”

“Oh, I don’t remember,” answered the assistant. “I suppose we could find out by looking up some of his old papers that we still have in the vault.”

“Look up that old mortgage that Gramps had on the Widow Smith’s little farm,” ordered the cashier.

A ponderous file was pulled from a shelf in the vault and the two men began to search the musty and dusty old documents of bygone days. At last they found the mortgage. There they found the Deacon’s name written out in full—James Duncan Cramps. The cashier of the People’s State Bank had a curious twinkle in his eye as he looked at his assistant. “Jim, do you know, I have a suspicious feeling about this here Gramps proposition,” he remarked. The assistant looked astonished. He had supposed all this time that the cashier was interested in the Deacon’s full name from some official standpoint. The cashier went on: “Widow Gramps was just in here a few minutes ago and cashed a check drawn by a man by the name of James Duncan. I have a suspicion that Deacon Gramps is still living and that this James Duncan is no other than James Duncan Gramps, and he is checking out of a Western bank money which Mrs. Cramps received from the insurance company in New York.”

“Surely that could not be,” responded the assistant. “Suppose we compare the handwriting on the check that you just cashed with the handwriting on these old papers.” After a close comparison of the two specimens of handwriting, the men decided that their resemblance was not sufficient to prove anything.

“At any rate it will do no harm to investigate,” remarked the cashier as he closed the heavy door of the vault. “I shall turn the evidence over to the insurance company in New York.” That evening at sundown when train Number 29 pulled out from the station at Dobbinsville and sped eastward, it carried in its mailcoach a letter of much significance addressed to the president of a large insurance company in New York City.

The following week one day, when the west-bound noon train stopped at Dobbinsville, a well-dressed stranger stepped from the platform of the coach and made inquiry as to the location of a hotel. A lanky-looking lad who leaned against a pole directed the stranger to the Dobbinsville Inn, across the street. A person of this man’s evident rank and importance was not a familiar sight in the streets of Dobbinsville. His mysterious presence set a peaceful town all agog. He became the subject of much exaggerated conjecture. Every fellow was overly eager to tell precisely what he did not know; namely, where this stranger came from and what his business was. Uncle Hezekiah Evans, the sixty-year-old newsboy who peddled the Post around over the village, said this stranger was evidently a rich man from the East who had come to buy the whole town out. “Fatty” Jones, whose chief employment was that of sitting on a baggage truck at the depot, had the opinion that this stranger was the son of a St. Louis millionaire who, having much time and money, had come out to an up-to-date country to spend both. It was the candid opinion of old “Doc” Greenwich that this stranger had committed a crime somewhere and was lounging around in this secluded nook to evade the officers of the law. “Dad” Brunt, the honored proprietor of the Dobbinsville Inn, had an advantage over his fellows, as the stranger was staying with him. He was sure that this man was interested in timberlands in the Mount Olivet neighborhood, as he had known the man to make two trips out here during his stay at the Inn.

The stranger spent a week in Dobbinsville, during which time he made frequent calls at the People’s State Bank. When he had gone, the cashier, to the great relief and surprise of his fellow townsmen, explained to them that he was an officer of the law whose business was to investigate the circumstances connected with the burning of Deacon Gramps’ barn.

Just about one month from this time Uncle Hezekiah Evans did a flourishing business selling papers. The Post came out with this startling headline: “DEACON HEARS OWN FUNERAL PREACHED.” Great excitement prevailed. Everybody in Dobbinsville who could read and some who could not bought a paper from Uncle Hezekiah. He sold all he had, and wished for more to sell. Not only were the people of Dobbinsvllle interested in this remarkable newspaper headline, but in every town and city that fell within the limits of the Post’s rather metropolitan circulation, people were startled at the unusual thought of a man hearing his own funeral. The article in the Post read like this:

The little town of Dobbinsville, snugly tucked away in the peaceful folds of the far-famed Ozark hills, is coming into its share of publicity. There has lived for many years in the vicinity of this village a substantial farmer by the name of Gramps. Until a couple of days ago Gramps was supposed to have been dead and buried. In fact, a tombstone in the churchyard near the Gramps homestead plainly states that Gramps is dead. Though tombstones sometimes say, “They have gone to rest,” the truth is otherwise and Gramps has turned up very much alive. According to an officer interviewed by a Post correspondent yesterday, Gramp’s story is somewhat on this wise:

A little over a year ago it became known in the neighborhood of Dobbinsville that Gramps, who for years had been a well-to-do farmer and a diligent deacon in a local church, was becoming involved in financial embarrassment. In order to save himself from bankruptcy, the Deacon, according to his own confession, resorted to very unusual means. Gramps carried heavy life insurance. About thirteen months ago he burned his barn and feigned to have burned with it. While his neighbors were at the church one Sunday he went into his big barn and after depositing in a pasteboard box his false teeth, his watch, his pocket-knife, and some pieces of silver coin, he placed the box in the manger and lighted the hay in the mow with a match. After making sure that the fire was in good way, he jumped from a window in the barn and ran, without detection, to his house and hid himself in the attic. Neighbors, missing Gramps, made a diligent search for him which resulted only in finding the molten remains of the pocket knife and other articles in the ash-heap where the barn was burned. Amid much mourning loving hands gathered ashes from the tragical spot and tenderly laid them in an expensive casket. The next day at the funeral in the parlor of the Gramps home, a minister from St. Louis delivered an empassloned eulogy, extolling the manifold excellencies of the honored dead. Through an open stairway door Gramps heard the eloquent words of the clergyman and the heart-rending sobs of his own wife and children.

After seeing his funeral done up in proper style, Gramps went to Colorado, where for a year, going under an assumed name, he conducted a Sunday School and took active part in other religious enterprises. Through the cooperation of his wife, who remained on the homestead at Dobbinsville, he came into possession of $10,000 from an insurance company in New York City. At the end of a year he planned for his wife to join him in Colorado, where, according to his statement, they were to begin life anew. But their plans were upset when the Deacon sent his wife a check signed with his assumed name, which name consisted of the first two words of his real name. Gramps and his wife are both in jail, where they await the action of the court and where they have a splendid opportunity to meditate upon the interesting happenings of the past year. Whether or not Mrs. Gramps was an accomplice has not yet developed.