Dear Sir: I received this ring from a friend and it’s too big for me, and I send my daughter with it; and what will you give me for it?
Your friend,
J. Jones.
The “J. Jones” was actually a flight of fancy on Hilda’s part. She thought it would be still more “story-booky” to sign an assumed name, and Cricket finally consented.
“It looks very well,” said Cricket, surveying the effusion with much pride, when it was neatly copied in Hilda’s pretty writing on mamma’s best note paper. “And ‘J. Jones’ might be anybody, you know. Oh, Hilda! I hope we’ll get lots of money for it!”
“We ought to. The gold is worth a good deal, I suppose.”
“When we get the money, we might go straight down to the bicycle place, and buy a bicycle right away, this very day,” proposed Cricket, with a skip of delight, as the children went out again. “Just think of calmly walking into the house at dinner-time, with a bicycle under our arms! I mean, of course—well, you know what I mean.”
“Wouldn’t everybody be surprised? Where will you keep your wheel, Cricket?”
“In the basement hall, probably. What shall you name yours, Hilda?”
“Name it?” queried Hilda.