My brothers and I were “cut and throw”
stamp collectors when we were young. This description did us justice since we
were aware that Gibbons of the U.K. would pay a stamp collector handsomely if
he came up with the right postage stamps.
Unfortunately, there was no method or system to our collecting postage
stamps except that we would cut out a stamp from any discarded envelope and throw
it into a shoe box with the hope that with the passage of time these stamps
would translate themselves into some kind of legacy. We had to make sure, however, that the stamps
had all their “teeth” as we called them.
In acceptable English they might be called “serrated edges.”
Just before you got to” the tunnel” heading
towards the “Jubilee Gardens” from Smith Mackenzie in Zanzibar, hidden from
view, was a man bent with age, and ravaged with a perpetual cold, who owned a
store where he sold valuable postage stamps and other memorabilia. These stamps
were placed in a locked cabinet with a glass top thick enough to ensure the
safety of the merchandise. This security
also attested to the premium that he placed on his stamp collection.
One bright Sunday morning after the 8’oclock
Mass, my brother Maurice and his friend Wolf both avid stamp fans, decided to
pay this stamp dealer a visit. Of
course, my brother Eustace and I tagged along for this cultural visit. When we entered the store, the owner welcomed
us cordially. He obviously had not seen
a customer for some time.
“What can I do for
you gentleman?” asked the dealer.
We were never
known to be gentleman, but we forgave him for the compliment.
“We would like to
see some of your stamps,” Maurice blurted out.
“Any particular
stamps”, the dealer asked amidst a cough and a sneeze.
“Why don’t you
show us some valuable stamps?” cut in Wolf.
“OooK”, stammered
the dealer with a sniff sniff, “let’s see what I got for you.”
He unlocked the
cabinet which strategically opened on his side, stretched his hand in the
cabinet and took out a stamp, handling it as though it was gold bullion from
Fort Knox. He placed it in front of
Wolf.
“Very valuable!” and
he sniffed twice.
Wolf looked at the
stamp as though he was already aware that he knew about that particular stamp,
though if the truth be told, he knew as much about it as the rest of us. Taking
the stamp in the palm of his hand, he passed it to Maurice with a
“Very valuable,”
and he sniffed twice.
Maurice, in turn,
passed it to me with a
“Very valuable,”
and a couple of sniffs.
I passed it on to
Eustace with a
“Very valuable,”
and two sniffs.
As it turned out,
there was another stamp coming down the pipeline, and then another. Finally, the dealer discovered that none of
the stamps were returning to him.
There was a pause.
“Gentlemen,” he
stressed, “I have passed you five stamps and I can only see one stamp. Where are the others?”
Wolf turned to
Maurice in disgust and urged:
“Give the man back
his stamps.”
Maurice responded
that he did not have them.
He turned to me
and shouted:
“Give the man back
his stamps.”
I looked at
Maurice in dismay.
I turned to
Eustace and insisted:
“Give the man his
stamps.”
Eustace sheepishly
put his hand in his pocket and produced the stamps as though his pocket was
there to supply the stamps with some kind of permanent safety.
The dealer lost
it. He screamed:
“Get out of my
shop all of you, you “ban..ots” (a Hindi word of endearment)
“Get out of here
before I call the police.”
In a flash we ran
for our lives, but completely forgot to reprimand Eustace who was in splits of
laughter over his infantile attempts to borrow what was not his.
The rest of us did
not find it funny!!!!! and assured him that he was going to Hell.
He put his hand in
his pocket and produced a stamp for all to see!!!! I am not sure that it was ever returned to
its rightful owner.
Decades later, our
stamp collection still remains in the shoebox and if the truth be told we have
no desire in establishing its value for fear that it might surprise us.
Cough! Cough!
Sniff! Sniff!
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