“What?” asked Fenn.
“This letter,” answered Frank, picking up a missive from the doorstep. The white envelope, so much like the snow, had not at first been noticed.
“Bring it in and see what it says,” proposed Bart, and soon, under the light of the gas in the dining-room, the boys were perusing the strange missive.
“It’s to me,” said Fenn, as he rapidly scanned it. “But what in the world does it mean? And it has no signature. Listen to this fellows,” and he read:
“‘Mr. Fenn Masterson,
“‘Dear Sir:—I understand you have quite a collection of mud turtles. Would you be willing to part with them? I mean for a consideration, of course. If you would kindly communicate with me. I will pay you a good price for all the turtles you have. But I must make this stipulation, which, at first may seem odd to you. But I have a reason for it. I can not meet you personally. If you are willing to sell your turtles will you write a note to that effect, and leave it in the dead sycamore tree on the edge of Oak Swamp? That is the only way in which you can communicate with me. Kindly let me hear from you soon.’”
As Fenn had said, there was no signature. He turned the strange letter over and looked at the back. It was blank.
“Well, wouldn’t that jar you!” exclaimed Bart, as he took the note from Fenn’s hand.