This is how the letter ran,—
“My dear nephew—”
“Stop a minute,” interrupted the doctor. “What is the name of the writer?”
“William Goodall, who is my uncle,” replied the aeronaut, “and the letter is addressed to me, Harry Goodall.”
“Then, my good sir,” observed Doctor Peters, brusquely, as he looked at the aeronaut, “how is it, if you are related to the brothers Goodall, of whom I happen to know something, that you did not make yourself known to the squire and to Miss Dove when you dropped among us in Wedwell Park?”
“It was because I am a Goodall that I withheld my own and my companions’ names, as my uncle, like you, doctor, hates ballooning, and has but a poor opinion of flying. He warned me never to visit Squire Dove until I had renounced my hobby.”
“Ah! it would have been well for you, young man, if you had obeyed your uncle,” cried the doctor.
“I beg to differ from you there,” said Harry Goodall; “for the concealment of my name has been a Godsend to me.”
A remark which made Miss Dove lower her eyes, while a becoming blush clearly showed that she reciprocated the sentiment of his remark.
“Now proceed, Mr Goodall, if you please,” said the magistrate.