"Won't you put something on and come out here, Henry? There is a light in Ito's house. I suppose you wouldn't let me go out and ask him?"
"I suppose not!"
"Then won't you go and ask if he saw a letter on my desk, sealed and addressed?"
Mr. Thorne sat up in bed disgustedly. "What is Ito doing with a light this time of night?"
"Hush, dear; don't speak so loud. He's studying. He's preparing himself to go into the Japanese navy."
"He is, is he! And that's why he can't get us our breakfast before half-past eight. I'll see about that light!"
"The letter, the letter!" Mrs. Thorne prompted in a ghostly—whisper. "Ask him if he saw it on my desk—a square blue envelope, thin paper."
The studious little cook was seated by a hot kerosene-lamp, at a table covered with picture-papers, soft Japanese books, and writing-materials. He was in his stocking-feet and shirt-sleeves, and his mental efforts appeared to have had a confusing effect on his usually sleek black hair, which stood all ways distractedly, while his sleepy eyes blinked under Mr. Thorne's brusque examination.
"I care fo' everything," he repeated, eliminating the consonants as he slid along. "Missa Tho'ne letta—all a-ready fo' mail—I putta pos'age-stamp, gifa to shif'-boss. I think Sa' F'a'cisco in a mo'ning. I care fo' everything!"
"Ito cares for everything," Mr. Thorne quoted, in answer to his wife's haggard inquiries. "He stamped your letter and sent it to town yesterday by one of the day-shift men."