A week passed and nothing of special interest happened. During that time Robert wrote to his mother, telling her where he was and what he was doing. He hoped to receive a letter in return, and was quite disappointed when no word came back.
The trouble was that the letter he had sent fell into James Talbot's hands.
"Here is a letter for Mrs. Talbot," said the postmaster, one day to Talbot, when the latter had called at the place for the mail.
"All right, I'll take it home to her," answered Robert's step-father.
"It's from Chicago," said the postmaster, whose name was Joel Blarcomb. "It looks like Robert's handwriting, too."
"Do you know Robert's writing?" questioned Mr. Talbot.
"Very well. He once did some writing for me in my books, when I had injured my finger on a nail in a sugar barrel," said the postmaster, who also kept the principal store in Granville.
"Well, give me the letter and I will take it home," said Mr. Talbot, and soon after left the store with the communication in his pocket.
As soon as he was out of sight of the store he began to inspect the letter and wondered what it contained.
"More than likely the young rascal has sent to his mother for money," he thought. "I've a good mind to open the letter and read it."