“Why in charge of me?” Fitzhugh straightened suspiciously.
“Because you’ve been sitting there asleep, and haven’t helped a hair, and it’s time we made you,” his wife answered, with severity. “Georgy, put in a P. S., and say it’s more convenient, owing to the storms, to have an answer sent in charge of Letitia’s and Mary’s nephew, Cadet Theodore Fitzhugh,” he directed the author.
Carruthers scribbled obediently.
“Why the storms?” Hill ventured. “There aren’t any storms.”
“Oh, don’t be such a fuss!” said Duncan. “Of course there aren’t, but it prevents suspicion to give reasons, and they won’t investigate our weather.”
There was silence for a moment while the boys stood over Carruthers, an erect and stately young trio in their gray and gold, and contemplated his finished labors. Duncan and Fitzhugh, leaning on each other’s shoulders, nodded with satisfaction, and Carruthers grinned with modest pride.
“Good work, lad!” said Fitzhugh, and slapped the scribe.
But Hill put his lips together. “Now look here!” he said; “that letter’s no good.”
“No good!” echoed Duncan and Fitzhugh, and Carruthers asked frowning:
“What do you mean?”