“Thank you. You’ll excuse me, won’t you, but I’m anxious about Avery and Smoke.”
“Smoke?”
“Yes. Wallie’s bull-terrier.”
“Oh, yes, I remember.”
He opened one of the letters and read slowly, his brows drawn together in an effort to decipher his partner’s chirography. “Listen to this, Aunt Bess. Talk about dogs remembering things.”
He turned back to the first page of the letter and began:—
Lost Farm Camp, June 18.
Dave Ross dear sir, Jim Cameron come Up nex day after you went bein curious to find what becom of Smoke. I thought he would never Git his tong back in his hed he was pantin from runnin Clean from Tramworth I guess, and a piece of rope on his coler. Jim says he drov from the Station and was Jest passin hikes house What owns the Dog what barks at everything includin hisself And Smoke was jest Finishin off the dog when Jim Hollered Smoke and he quit. Jim says he knowed it was Smoke by the Red ticket tied to him but Smoke lit out fur here and me and Swickey was Sleepin when she hearn Smoke scratchin the Door. Hikes Dog chawed Some of the Ticket but I reckon it is good yit. and Swickey grabbed Smoke Around the neck and Took him To bed cryin and laffin. We got Smoke alright And if the Surveior wants him I kin ship him but I Thought you would Rite and say so. Swickey is kind of quiet like mostly sense you went. Hoping this Finds you in Good health as it leaves me yours truly
—— JOHN AVERY.
“My goodness! And that’s your friend at Lost Farm. No wonder he wants you to teach his daughter, David. Do you really enjoy living with such people?”
“It isn’t just the people, Aunt Bess. It’s the place, the surroundings, the simplicity of everything—and it’s big. Boston isn’t big, it’s just complex.”
Miss Ross sighed, endeavoring to understand her nephew’s rather unintelligible distinction.