"Bully," said Shorty, with the first joyous emotion since the reception of the letter. "It's jest the thing. Here's a half-dollar for you. Now, Sammy, kin you write?"
"They're makin' me learn, and that's one reason why I want to run away," with a doleful remembrance of his own grievances. "What's the use of it, I'd like to know? It cramps my fingers and makes my head ache. Simon Kenton couldn't write his own name, but he killed more Injuns than ary other man in the country. I guess you'd want to run away, too, if they made you learn to write."
"You little brat," said Shorty reprovingly; "you don't know what's good for you. You do as they say, and learn to write as quick as you kin." Then, in a softer tone: "Now, Sammy, I want you to promise to write me a long letter—two sheets o' foolscap."
"Why, I never writ so much in all my life," protested the boy. "It'd take me a year."
"Well, you've got to, now, and it mustn't take you two weeks. Here's a dollar for you, and when I git the letter I'll send you home a real rebel gun. Now, you're to cross your heart and promise on your sacred word and honor that you'll keep this secret from everybody, not to tell a word to nobody. You must tell me all about what they say about me, and partickerlerly what Miss Maria says. Tell me everything you kin about Miss Maria, and who goes with her."
"What makes you like Maria better'n you do 'Mandy?" inquired the boy. "I like 'Mandy lots the best. She's heap purtier, and lots more fun, and don't boss me around like Maria does."
"That's all you know about it, you little skeezics. She don't boss you around half as much as she ought to." Then gentler: "Now, Sammy, do jest as I say, and I'll send you home a real rebel gun jest as soon as I get your letter."
"A real gun, that'll be all my own, and will shoot and kick, and crack loud?"
"Yes, a genuine rebel gun, that you kin shoot crows with and celebrate Christmas, and kill a dog."
"Well, I'll write you a letter if it twists my fingers off," said the boy joyously.