Yankee Swat
By Myrica Blue
I had noticed that he was carrying a long object wrapped in paper, but I’d figured it was a golf club. “That’s the Boston Post cane?”
“Yep.” He tore the paper off and handed it across my desk. It was made of smooth, polished dark wood – ebony wood from the Congo, according to Pudge Loring’s letter – topped with a shiny gold head. The head was surprisingly heavy and engraved. I ran a finger over it.
“This is just gold plate, right?”
Coot shrugged. “I don’t really know.”
“What’s it worth?”
“I don’t know that either,” he said, suddenly thoughtful. “In fact, I don’t even know if the town ever insured it. Like I said, I wasn’t on the board the last time they gave it out and I never really thought about it.”
“Did your uncle carry it around with him?”
Coot shook his head. “I had forgotten he even had it, until the paper brought it up. It wasn’t in the car when he crashed, if that’s what you’re wondering. My wife found it at his house.”
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