The young fellow swallowed awkwardly before replying, and grew red in the face. His first impulse was to resent the question as an unwarranted intrusion into his private affairs. But, on second thought, he knew that such an attitude on his part, especially toward Chick, would be extremely poor policy.
“Why,” he exclaimed finally, “it was to a girl by the name of Rachael, and it was signed ‘Alfred.’”
“That’s all right so far,” assented Chick. “But they’s lots o’ Rachaels in the U. S., and the world’s full of Alfreds. Tell me what was in it.”
“Oh, now, look here, Chick! That’s not necessary. Surely I’ve identified the letter sufficiently, and I’m entitled to have it.”
But Chick was obdurate. “No,” he said, “a man can’t be too careful about love-letters. If this here letter should git into the hands o’ the wrong party my goose would be cooked. You got to tell me what was in the letter ’fore I give it up.”
Alfred Lewis looked up the street, then down the street, and then at Chick.
“Well,” he said finally, “I asked Rachael to marry me.”
“That’s right!” assented the boy. “You sure did. Now, was they any p. s. on the end, or wasn’t they?”
“I believe there was.”