“Well, whatever it is,” I said, “I don’t think he’s awfully happy somehow, and it’s nice of him to write such a gorgeous thing.”
So we both decided that whether he was staying on the island of his own free will, or in bondage, in any case it must be frightfully dull for him and that our letter ought to be interesting and cheerful.
Just then the hemlock branches thrashed apart and Greg crawled under with pine-needles in his hair. He sat back on his heels and blinked at us, because he’d just come out of the sunlight.
“I thought somebody ought to write to the Bottle Man,” he said, “so I did.”
“Well, I never!” Jerry said.
Greg fished up a bent piece of paper from inside his jumper and handed it to me.
“You can see it,” he said, “but not Jerry.”
“As if I’d want to!” Jerry said; but he did, fearfully.
Greg is the most unexpected person I ever knew. He’s always doing things like that, when everyone else has given up.
I spread his paper out on top of the other letter, and he sprawled down beside me, all ready to explain with his finger. What with his dreadfully bad writing and the sunlight moving off the paper all the time as the branches swayed, it took me ever so long to read the thing. This is what it was: