"I told you, Ronnie—I told you about him."
"I forgot for a minute," said Ronald. "You mean the street preacher."
"Yus," said Connie. "'E'll save us. There's no fear o' Mammy Warren getting to us ever again ef he takes us in 'and."
Ronald smiled.
"The only thing I'm afraid of is this," he said—"that if it's true about father, he may come here and find me gone."
"Let's leave a note for him," said Connie then. "Let's put it on the table. If Mammy Warren should come back she'll find the note, but that won't do any harm, for she knows Father John, and she's awful afeered of him, 'cos she said as much, so she'd never follow us there."
"The very thing!" said Ronald. "Let's get some paper. Will you write the note, Connie?"
The children poked round in the sitting-room, and found a sheet of very thin paper, and an old pen, and a penny bottle of ink. Ronald dictated, and Connie wrote:
"Dear Father,—I've waited here for a week. I am trying to be very brave. Connie's an awful nice girl. We've picked the lock here, father, and we've gone to Father John, in Adam Street. Please come quick, for your little boy is so very hungry for you. Come quick, darling father.—Your little waiting boy, Ronald."
"That'll bring him," said Ronald. "We'll put it on the table."