"You mean the letters the boy brought out for the President?"
"Yes, damn it!" responded the other, regarding the letters with a troubled brow. "This is a pretty kettle of fish. Uncle Randolph's letters are apt to be important, and this one has a beastly official look. It's sure to be something that couldn't wait. It's probably the thing he was looking for when he gave orders to have his mail brought out to him."
"'If not delivered in five days return to R. B. Tillington, 57 State Street, Boston,'" read Jerry over his shoulder. "Tillington's the zinc-mine man, isn't he?"
"Zinc, copper, gold,—any old thing that you can make a mining speculation out of. I think he's a slippery old fraud, but he's hand in glove with Uncle Randolph; or rather they have a lot of business together. Uncle Randolph thinks Tillington wouldn't dare to play him false, but he's an eely old beggar. Anyhow, this letter may mean the making or the losing of a fortune for all I know. Gad! Running away with his yacht is nothing to going off with his letters!"
"I don't suppose it would do to mail them here?" suggested Jerry.
"That would dish us all right," Jack answered. "It would give us away by the postmark. Uncle Randolph isn't likely to think of our coming across. He can't know we were provisioned, and he very likely thinks we are still knocking about on the other side of the Atlantic."
"He might find out about the stores by asking at the express offices and that sort of thing."
"Why should he, unless something puts the idea into his head?"
"I suppose he wouldn't," Jerry assented thoughtfully. "How would it do to return this letter to Tillington?"