"Now; we can't afford to hire many of these outside speakers for prohibition—it costs too much to get them here. But I have told Mr. Haley to brush up his ideas, and by and by we'll have him make a speech in Polktown. He can practise on the pigs for a while," added the elder laughing; "and maybe after all they won't be so dif'rent from some of them in town that I want should hear the young man when he does spout."
So Janice was comforted, and ran down town to the Drugg place in a much more cheerful frame of mind. Marty was waiting at the store for the car. There was a special reason for his being so prompt.
"Look-a-here!" he called. "What d'ye know about this?" and he waved something over his head.
"What is it, Marty Day?" Janice cried, looking at the small object in wonder.
"Another letter from Uncle Brockey! Hooray! he ain't dead yet!" shouted the boy.
His cousin seized the missive—fresh from the post-office—and gazed anxiously at the envelope. It was postmarked in one of the border towns many days after the report of Juan Dicampa's death; yet the writing on the envelope was the handwriting of the guerrilla chief.
"Goodness me!" gasped Janice, "what can this mean?"
She broke the seal. As usual the envelope inside was addressed to her by her father. And as she hastily scanned the letter she saw no mention made of Juan Dicampa's death. Indeed, Mr. Broxton Day wrote just as though his own situation, at least, had not changed. And he seemed to have received most of her letters.
What did it mean? If the guerrilla leader had been shot by the Federals, how was it possible for her father's letters to still come along, redirected in Juan Dicampa's hand?
Doubt assailed her mind—many doubts, indeed. Although Mr. Broxton Day seemed still in safety, the mystery surrounding his situation in Mexico grew mightily in Janice's mind.