“Good-morning,” said Mr. Marcy. In his hand was the letter.
“Gerald,” he began, walking up to the lounge, “your father wants you.”
“Papa!” exclaimed the boy, starting up as Mr. Marcy sat down. “Where is he? When did he come? Isn’t that just like him!”
“No, sit down,” laughed Mr. Marcy, holding up the letter. “He isn’t down-stairs. He’s just where he was, in Nova Scotia. Listen to this and tell me what you think of it.”
He read, while Philip listened from across the room:
“Camp Half-Dozen, September, 188–.
“Dear Marcy: Please send Gerald up to me at this place, via Halifax, as soon as possible. When he arrives he can go to the Waverly Hotel. Somebody in our party, or myself, will meet him. We have not roughed it so much as I expected. We shall stay here; the hot weather seems to hold on too long down your way. Of course, Gerald cannot make such a journey alone. Put him in charge of an experienced servant used to traveling, or make some arrangement of the kind convenient. I inclose check. Supply whatever extra is needed.
“We are having a first-class time—lots of fishing and shooting. Our nearest civilization is miles off. Hope the Ossokosee is doing well these closing weeks. It’s a late season every-where, isn’t it?
“Yours, etc.,