“That’s a fine letter, young man,” approved Rob. “Stepdaddy ought to take you into his law firm.”
“No,” declared Beth. “I think Ptolemy has inherited his mother’s gift. He should be a writer.”
“Not on your life!” cried Ptolemy with 275 feeling. “I want to live things instead of writing about them.”
A tear or two came into Silvia’s eyes.
“It was very sweet in you, Ptolemy, to try to get the money for mudder.”
I felt that all this commendation was bad for Ptolemy, and that it was up to me to take a reef in his sails.
“It was a well-meant letter, Ptolemy,” I said, “and I know that your motive was unselfish, but it is very poor policy to meddle in other people’s affairs. Meddlers are mischief makers in spite of their good intentions. I am very glad it did not fall into Uncle Issachar’s hands.”
Ptolemy looked sufficiently squelched.
“By the way, Silvia,” I said. “I wrote Mr. Winslow and told him not to forget to forward Uncle Issachar’s address as soon as he possibly could do so, as I had matters of importance to communicate to him.”