P.S.—Give my love to Sheila, and stroke her velvet ears for me.
Kiddie drew a deep breath. Rube Carter, who was behind him dusting the books and pictures, heard him, and turned round.
"Got some bad news in that letter you're readin', Kiddie?" he asked.
Kiddie folded up the letter and replaced it in its envelope.
"No," he answered. "It ought to be good news. My cousin Harold is coming out to pay us a visit."
"That so?" said Rube. "You've told me of your cousin Harold. He's your heir, ain't he? What did you sigh for? Don't you want him?"
"It was Harold who gave me the deerhound," Kiddie explained. "He sends his love to her. And she's dead. That's why I sighed. Say, Rube, you'll like Cousin Harold."
"Dunno 'bout that," said Rube. "Guess I shall have ter take a very far back seat when he comes along. Why, by all accounts he's even more of a gentleman than you are yourself, Kiddie."
"That's quite true," Kiddie acknowledged. "But that's no disadvantage, is it? We both stand in need of a bit of polishin' up before we go home to England again."
"Home to England?" Rube repeated. "What d'you mean by that?"