“About the size of a good big pill-box.”
“All that? I dare say I can fetch that up by myself,” said Charlie.
Size of a large pill-box! It could not be anything so very important after all. So he turned again to his Cicero, and sent the fag about his business.
Presently, however, that youth returned with a letter for Charlie. It ran thus:
“Dear Young Scamp,
“People always say bachelor uncles are fools, and I think they are right. I’ve sent you a proof of my folly in a little box, which ought to reach you about the same time as this letter. You’ve done nothing to deserve a present from me, and a box on the ears would be much better bestowed. Never mind. Take care of this little gift for me, in memory of the jolly Christmas you and I last spent together, and when you are not kicking up a row with your cronies at Randlebury or have nothing better to do, think of your affectionate
“Uncle Ralph.”
Much to the fag’s astonishment, Charlie, having perused this letter, slammed up Cicero, and seizing the cap from off his (the fag’s) head, as being most ready to hand, dashed out of school in the direction of the village.
“Trot!” he exclaimed, as he reached the establishment of that familiar merchant, “hand up that little box, you old villain! Do you hear?”
The long-suffering Trotter, to whom this address was comparatively polite in its phraseology, was not long in producing the parcel, in acknowledgment of which Charlie gave his sign manual in lordly characters upon the receipt; and then, burning with impatience, yet trying hard to appear unconcerned, walked swiftly back to the school.
The fag was hanging about his study, scarcely less curious than himself.
“Hook it!” cried his master, putting the parcel down on the table and taking out his penknife to cut the string.