“He always incloses mine in letters to my aunt.”
“But you never mentioned them, all the same,” said Blackie, “except the one about the White House.”
“They are confidential, mostly.” Junior returned to the absorbing letter. Presently he laughed outright.
“What does he say that’s so funny?”
“Oh, hell! Read it yourself.” Junior seemed irritated and tossed the bulky letter across to his roommate.
It had taken the boy some time to compose this letter to himself, for it required more than the possession of a typewriter and his father’s engraved stationery to create a convincing illusion of a letter from a father. Junior had seen so few, except for those Blackie had allowed him to read, that he had no working model for long, interesting letters worthy of a great man like his father.
The first draught had begun, “My darling boy,” but he changed that—it sounded too much like Blackie’s mother. He made it “My dearest son.” He rather fancied that, but finally played safe and addressed himself simply as “Dear Junior.”
My work here is going fine. I have three thousand natives at work under me not to speak of a hundred engineers on my staff doing the technikal work. I am terribly busy but of course won’t let that interfere with my regular weekly letter to you.
Junior was watching Blackie’s face.
I often think of the last canoe trip with you in Canada and can hardly wait until I take another canoe trip with you in Canada. Remember that time you hooked a four-pounder with your three ounce rod? You were a little fellow then, that was before you went away to school. Remember how you yelled to me for help to land same?