“We’ve got the schoolhouse fellows to look at,” said Bloomfield, “come along. If they’ve any one better we’ll take him, but we must get hold of the best man.”
So off they went, and the Welchers’ practice continued gaily till the bell for call-over sounded.
“Riddell,” said Cusack, who had become captain’s fag since the migration to Welch’s, “there’s a letter for you.”
“Where?” asked the captain.
“On your table. I saw it there when I was sticking away your pens just now.”
“You may as well bring it,” said Riddell; “I am going to the library.”
So Cusack went off, and presently reappeared in the library with the letter.
Riddell was busy at the moment searching through the catalogue, and consequently let the letter lie unopened for some little time beside him. In due time, however, he turned and took it up.
It was a strangely directed letter, at any rate—not in ordinary handwriting, but in printed characters, evidently to disguise the authorship.
Riddell hastily tore open the envelope of this mysterious missive and read the contents, which were also written like printing, in characters quite unrecognisable.