“Doubleday is always flattering somebody,” said he. “Never mind; it may be only fancy on my part after all.”
Jack wanted to get to his books that evening, but I dissuaded him.
“It can do no good,” said I, “and it may just muddle you for to-morrow. Take an easy evening now, and go to bed early. You’ll be all the fresher for it to-morrow.”
So, instead of study, we fell-to talking, and somehow got on to the subject of the home at Packworth.
“By the way, Fred,” said Jack, “I got a letter from you the other day.”
“From me?” I cried; “I haven’t written to you for months.”
“It was from you, though, but it had been a good time on the road, for it was written from Stonebridge House just after I had left.”
“What! the letter you never called for at the post-office?”
“The letter you addressed to ‘J.’ instead of ‘T.’ my boy; But I’m glad to have it now. It is most interesting.”
“But however did you come by it?” I asked.