The pen, inkstand, and paper, are placed on the rude slab table, and Jerry Rook sits down before it, taking the pen between his fingers.
After a few moments spent in silent cogitation, reflecting on the form of his epistle, it is produced.
Badly spelt, and rudely scrawled, but short and simple, it runs thus:—
“To Planter Brandin, Esquare.
“Sir,—I guess as how ye recollex a man, by name, Dick Tarleton; an’ maybe ye mout be desireous o’ seein’ him. Ef ye be, ye kin gratify yur desire. He air now, at this present moment, in the town o’ Helena, tho’ what part o’ it I don’t know. But I know whar he will be afore mornin’. That air upon the road leadin’ from the town t’ward the settlements on White River. He arn’t a gwine fur out, as he’s travellin’ afoot, and he’s sartin to keep the trace through the bit o’ clearin’ not fur from Caney Crik. Ef you or anybody else wants ter see him, that wud be as good a place as thar is on the road.
“Y’urs at command,
“A Strenger but a Fren’.”
Jerry Rook has no fear of his handwriting beings recognised. So long since he has seen it, he would scarce know it himself.
Folding up the sheet, and sealing it with some drops of resin, melted in the dull flame of the dip, he directs it as inside—“To Planter Brandin, Esquare.”
Then handing it to his daughter, and instructing the young girl how to deliver it incog, he despatches her upon her errand.