“Yes, but she wants to go to school awfully—so she can be like other folks.” This phrase of Alice’s had made a deep impression upon Jane.
“Poor little girl—she’s certainly had a rough row to hoe—and all alone in the world, too.” Dick was talking to himself rather than to Chicken Little.
He turned to her again presently after another period of meditation.
“Alice certainly deserves better things of the Fates, Jane, and I’ve been wondering if you and I couldn’t find a way to help her out. How would it do for you to write a letter to this Uncle Joseph and tell him about Alice just as you have told me. I expect it would be pretty hard work for a ten year old, but I could help you. What do you say?”
Chicken Little was overawed at the prospect of writing to a strange man, but she was very eager to help Alice.
“Could I write it with a pencil? Mother doesn’t like me to use ink ’cause I most always spill it.”
“A pencil is just the thing—it will be easier to erase if you get something wrong. But, Chicken Little, I guess this would better be a little secret just between you and me for the present. I’ll tell your mother all about it myself some of these days. Do you think you could write the letter and have it ready by tomorrow afternoon? I’ll see you after school and take it and mail it—if it’s all right.”
Chicken Little thought she could. Dick Harding gave her as explicit directions as he dared as to what she should say and what she should not say.
“Remember,” he added, “not a word of this to anybody—especially to Alice.”
“I’ve probably got the youngster all mixed up with my fool directions, but I believe she might make an impression on the uncle, if she can only write as she talks. Bless her tender heart. Alice has one loyal friend if she is small,” he said to himself, unconsciously echoing Dr. Morton’s words.