“Respectfully,
“Phillip Scott Ryerson.”
David handed back the letter with a grunt and looked up at John.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well?” echoed John.
“Oh, if you ask me, I think you’d better forgive and forget.”
“That of course,” replied the other. “The fact is, Davy, I made up my mind yesterday to look him up again. After all, it wasn’t altogether the boy’s fault. And the weather Wednesday was beastly. But what do you think of the epistle?”
“Why, it sounds sincere, Johnnie, in spite of a certain—er—involution.”
“Yes; I believe the boy’s the right sort after all, Davy. Who knows but what we’ll be able to do something with him yet?”
“We!”