P.S. Have hot biscuits, too. Roy.
There were a couple of letters to Uncle Jeb from the camp office, and the rest were to scouts in camp whom Tom did not know, for he had made no acquaintances. There was one letter for Tom, bearing the postmark of Dansburg, Ohio, which he opened with curiosity and read with increasing consternation. It ran:
Dear Tom Slade:
I didn't get there after all, but now we're coming, the whole outfit, bag and baggage. I suppose you think I'm among the missing, not hearing from me all this time. But on Saturday I'll show you the finest troop of scouts this side of Mars. So kill the fatted calf for we're coming.
Slade, as sure as I'm writing you this letter, I started east, sumpty-sump days ago and was going to drop in on you and have a little visit, just we two, before this noisy bunch got a chance to interfere. We'll just have to sneak away from them and get off in the woods alone and talk about old times in France.
Maybe you won't believe it, but I got as far as Columbus and there was a telegram from my boss, "Come in, come in, wherever you are." Can you beat that? So back I went on the next train. You'll have to take the will for the deed, old man.
Don't you care; now I'm coming with my expeditionary forces, and you and I'll foil them yet. One of our office men was taken sick, that was the trouble. And I've been so busy doing his work and my own, and getting this crew of wild Indians ready to invade Temple Camp, that I haven't had time to write a letter, that's a fact. Even at this very minute, one young tenderfoot is shouting in my ear that he's crazy to see that fellow I bunked into in France. He says he thinks the troop you're mixed up with must think you're a great hero.
So bye bye, till I see you,
W. Barnard.