"Mr. Oscar Mitchell, is it?"
"The same, and happy to serve you."
"Got a letter for you from your cousin, Stan. My name's Johnson."
Mitchell extended his hand, gave Pete a grip of warm welcome.
"I am delighted to see you, Mr. Johnson. Take a chair—this big one is the most comfortable. And how is Stanley? A good boy; I am very fond of him. But, to be honest about it, he is a wretched correspondent. I have not heard from him since Christmas, and then barely a line—the compliments of the season. What is he doing with himself? Does he prosper? And why did he not come himself?"
"As far as making money is concerned, he stands to make more than he'll ever need, as you'll see when you read his letter," said Pete. "Otherwise he's only just tol'able. Fact is, he's confined to his room. That's why I come to do this business for him."
"Stanley sick? Dear, dear! What is it? Nothing serious, I hope!"
"Why, no-o—not to say sick, exactly. He just can't seem to get out o' doors very handy. He's sorter on a diet, you might say."
"Too bad; too bad! He should have written his friends about it. None of us knew a word of it. I'll write to him to-night and give him a good scolding."
"Aw, don't ye do that!" said Pete, twisting his hat in embarrassment. "I don't want he should know I told you. He's—he's kind of sensitive about it. He wouldn't want it mentioned to anybody."