But Adoniram held it out of his reach.
“I don’t see how you make that out, Mr. Tarr,” he said quietly. “This letter is not addressed to you. It is in your handwriting, Caleb, and is addressed to ‘Master Brandon Tarr, Chopmist, Rhode Island.’”
“Oh, you swab!” exclaimed the old tar, with a withering glance of contempt at old Arad, as he seized the letter. “This ’ere’s what I wrote the boy w’en I was in the hospital—w’ich same he never got. Now, how came you by it? You old land shark!”
Arad was undeniably frightened. Although he might explain the fact of his opening Don’s letter as eminently proper, to himself, he well knew that he could not make these friends of his nephew see it in the same light.
“I—I—it came arter Brandon went away,” he gasped in excuse.
“It did, hey?” exclaimed Caleb suspiciously.
Mr. Pepper took the envelope again and examined the postmark critically.
“Hum—um,” he said slowly, “postmarked in New York on the third; received on the afternoon of the fourth at the Chopmist post office. I’m afraid, my dear sir, that that yarn won’t wash.”
Uncle Arad was speechless, and looked from one to the other of the stern faced men in doubt.
“He—he was my nevvy; didn’t I hev a right ter see what he had written ter him?”