“The letter at last!” she said. “Shall I read it or will you?”
“You read it. It takes me so long. I'll read it all day, after you are gone. I always do.”
Anna Gates read the letter. She read aloud poor Peter's first halting lines, when he was struggling against sleep and cold. They were mainly an apology for the delay. Then forgetting discomfort in the joy of creation, he became more comfortable. The account of the near-accident was wonderfully graphic; the description of the chamois was fervid, if not accurate. But consternation came with the end.
The letter apparently finished, there was yet another sheet. The doctor read on.
“For Heaven's sake,” said Peter's frantic postscript, “find out how much a medium-sized chamois—”
Dr. Gates stopped “—ought to weigh,” was the rest of it, “and fix it right in the letter. The kid's too smart to be fooled and I never saw a chamois outside of a drug store. They have horns, haven't they?”
“That's funny!” said Jimmy Conway.
“That was one of my papers slipped in by mistake,” remarked Dr. Gates, with dignity, and flashing a wild appeal for help to Harmony.
“How did one of your papers get in when it was sealed?”
“I think,” observed Harmony, leaning forward, “that little boys must not ask too many questions, especially when Christmas is only six weeks off.”