“Well, what is it?” asked the eager audience.
“See here, boys. There’s Miss Sinclair. You was saying as Abe’s gone on her. She don’t fancy him much you think. Suppose we write him a note—send it him to-night, you know.”
“Well, what then?” said McCoy.
“Well, pretend the note is from her, d’ye see? Put her name at the bottom. Let on as she wants him to come up an’ meet her in the garden at twelve. He’s bound to go. He’ll think she wants to go off with him. It’ll be the biggest thing played this year.”
There was a roar of laughter. The idea conjured up of honest Bones mooning about in the garden, and of old Joshua coming out to remonstrate with a double-barrelled shot-gun, was irresistibly comic. The plan was approved of unanimously.
“Here’s pencil and here’s paper,” said the humorist. “Who’s goin’ to write the letter?”
“Write it yourself, Jim,” said Shamus.
“Well, what shall I say?”
“Say what you think right.”
“I don’t know how she’d put it,” said Jim, scratching his head in great perplexity. “However, Bones will never know the differ. How will this do? ’Dear old man. Come to the garden at twelve to-night, else I’ll never speak to you again,’ eh?”