Never had she seemed so dear to Joe, more attractive than ever, in her sensible short skirt of greenish-brown homespun, her trim camping boots, and a very becoming little felt hat, which Joe lost no time in making gay with three scarlet ibis and a silver doctor from his fly-book.
That night at supper came another surprise; under Joe’s tin plate lay a letter, which Sue had slipped there under strict orders from Enoch.
“He will understand, my dear, when he reads it,” he had said to her, and, furthermore, that she should hide it under his plate their first night in camp. Even the Jacksons did not know of its existence.
“Hello!” cried Joe, as he seated himself and discovered it. “Mail, eh! Why, there isn’t any stamp on it. Who of you three dear people brought this?”
The Jacksons’ innocence was evident at a glance.
Joe looked at Sue and smiled.
“You?” he asked. “Come, confess.” But her eyes already confessed it.
“It’s from Mr. Crane. Hadn’t you better read it? He said it was important.”
He tore open the envelope and scanned the following. Then for an instant his eyes opened wide and he half rose. It ran as follows:
My Dear Fellow: