"Possibly."
Nevertheless, despite his acquiescence, Mr. Burton returned to his letters with an air indicative that at least, so far as he was concerned, the possibility he granted was an exceedingly remote one—too remote to merit further consideration.
And indeed it did appear to be so until one day, like a meteor out of the heavens, a grimy communication postmarked Chicago was brought to Christopher, who in a fit of boredom was roaming aimlessly about the lamp department.
"I guess this is meant for you, Mr. Christopher," announced the messenger, whose duty it was to distribute the store mail. "Funny way to address it, though. You'd take it for a valentine:
Mr. Burton's son
Care Burton and Norcross, Jewellers,
New York City."
"That's me all right," cried Christopher, forgetting in his excitement and curiosity such a trivial incidental as grammar.
He took the letter, regarding with amusement its disreputable appearance.
"Humph! They didn't waste very dressy stationery on me, did they?" laughed he.
"It isn't deckle-edge paper with a ducal seal, if that is what you're expecting," grinned the boy, not unwilling to air his knowledge of such matters.
As with an impish grimace he disappeared Christopher tore open the envelope he held and drew from it a single crushed manilla sheet on which was scrawled: