“Thank ye,” said Frank warmly; “but how am I to tell him that?”
Andrew turned and gave his companion a peculiar smiling look.
“Of course,” he said merrily, “how can you tell him? He did not tell you how to write to him—oh, no; nor where to find the letters he sent to you. Oh, no; he wouldn’t do that. Not at all likely, is it?”
Frank turned white.
“How did you know that?” he said hoarsely.
“Because I’m rowing in the same boat, Franky. Why, of course he did. Now, didn’t he?”
The boy nodded.
“So did my father, of course. There, I’m going to thoroughly trust you, if you don’t me. I’d trust you with anything, because I can feel that you couldn’t go wrong. I don’t want you to tell me where your father told you to write, or what name he is going to take, or how you are to get his letters, for of course he couldn’t write to the Palace. But he told you how to communicate with him, I do know, Frank. It was a matter of course with your father like that. I say, what do you think of a tin box in a hollow tree in the Park, where you can bury it in the touchwood when you go to feed the ducks?”
“That would be a good way of course,” said Frank; “but no, it isn’t like that.”
“What, for you and your father? Who said it was? I meant for me and mine.”