“If only we can follow it up with another one later on, telling that we have actually found the chest of gold!” said Fred.
“If we do, you’ll have the pleasure of writing it,” declared Teddy. “Turn about is fair play.”
It was late on the following day when the letters reached the Rushton home. The head of the house had not yet returned from his office in the city, and the only people in the house, besides Martha, the colored cook, were Mrs. Rushton and Mr. Aaron Rushton.
The latter had been detained at home by an attack of neuralgia, and was in a bad temper. At his best, he could never be called a congenial companion, 97 but when to his naturally surly disposition neuralgia was added, he became simply intolerable. Mrs. Rushton’s nerves had been worn to a frazzle by having him around, and it was almost with a hysterical feeling of relief that she pounced upon the letters that Martha brought in. There were several, but that from Fred was on top.
“A letter from Fred!” she exclaimed delightedly, as she recognized the writing. “I wonder what the dear boys are doing.”
“Doing everybody, probably,” said her brother-in-law gloomily. “Especially that boy Teddy. He’s either in mischief or he’s sick.”
“Now, Aaron, you oughtn’t to talk that way about Teddy,” protested Mrs. Rushton, bridling in defence of her offspring. “There are plenty of worse boys than Teddy in the world.”
“Maybe, but I never met them,” retorted Aaron Rushton.
“He has a great, big heart,” went on Teddy’s mother.
“His gall has impressed me more than any other bodily organ he owns,” was the reply. Evidently Mr. Aaron Rushton’s temper had a razor edge that day.