"That's me," the amateur replied after a moment's thought: "but I don't reckon I've got a letter, 'cause there's nobody who'd write to me."
"Here's what the address says," and the young man held the envelope in such a manner that both the boy and his instructor could see the superscription:
"Seth Bartlett, fireman up at headquarters, New York."
Seth made no attempt to take the missive until Mr. Fernald asked quite sharply:
"Why don't you take it? There's no other of that name here so far as I know."
"I never had a letter, an' it can't be for me."
"You're the only Seth Bartlett in the building, and it must belong to you," the messenger said impatiently, whereat he threw the missive toward Seth and went his way.
Not until Mr. Fernald had peremptorily ordered the boy to open the letter in order to see if it was intended for him, did the amateur as much as touch the soiled envelope; but after having torn it open the expression on his face told that the writer was not a stranger.
This is what Seth read in ill-formed letters, many of them occupying the depth of two lines, some in written and others in printed characters:
"Seth Bartlett, fireman up at headquarters.