Bob, as we know, had another peculiar habit; he could not think without scratching his head.
So, taken altogether, writing was an arduous undertaking.
After several attempts, Bob declared himself satisfied with his effusion.
It was as peculiar as the writer himself. Some of the letters were printed, and gave the missive a very strange appearance, especially when the printed letter came in the middle of a word.
"He made me swear not to tell," the letter commenced, "or your hair would stand on end."
Bob scratched his head as he read it.
"That's good!" he murmured. "I ain't splitting."
His spelling was as bad as his writing, but those little mistakes we have rectified, as it is with the subject matter, not the correctness of the orthography or chirography, that we have to deal.
"But if I dare tell you, you'd put all the prisoners in irons before the night got dark, and there may be bullets underneath the tin. Your boy, Bob."
When perfectly satisfied with the epistle, Bob began to wonder how he could give it to Tempest without the act being seen.