“Henry, there is one point I don’t quite understand,” George observed. “Why do you say in the letter, ‘if you cannot rescue me, send this letter to my father’? Suppose that Marmaduke should take it into his head to send it! Then—then—”
“Well, George, I put that in to make the letter seem less like a fable. Don’t you know that a person in trouble would naturally say or write something to that effect; and besides, right under that I wrote, ‘perhaps my father is dead.’ Therefore, he will hardly send the appeal off to France; but if he speaks of it, use your wits and persuade him to hurry to the rescue.”
The plotters held their breath for admiration, and their honor for Henry increased. To them he was a wiser and greater being than any of the grave heroes who figured in their dog’s-eared, mutilated histories—wiser than the great Solon—deeper than the emissaries of Mephistopheles—more learned than—than—but here their well of eloquence ran dry, and they could not express themselves further.
Will was quite happy now; his cousin had come; the plot was well under way; the genius who was to direct it was admired, honored, reverenced. It was glory enough for him to have such a phenomenon for a near relative.
But George was bold enough to point out another irregularity. Said he: “Look here, Henry, we didn’t give any account of the journey from the coast to the prison! Marmaduke is very particular to have little things explained; and that is passed by.”
“George, don’t be foolish;” Will returned angrily. “Henry couldn’t explain everything; and the letter is long enough as it is.”
“Of course; no one can improve on it;” Charles declared.
“Leave that to Marmaduke,” said Steve. “His imagination will soon find the ways and means.”
“Yes,” chimed in Charles, “his imagination will supply all defects—but there are none. The letter is perfect perfection.”
“That about ‘the general’ is a happy thought,” Stephen remarked. “Marmaduke will snatch at that like a hungry hawk.”