He went off into another burst of merriment.
"Hit your funny-bone, Wingate?" asked Dick Travers.
"It's a letter from Uncle Parsons. Christopher! But he has handed out a few choice remarks about poor old Hacky. Listen."
Nat began to read.
"'When John Hackett learned of your disobedient and disgraceful conduct, and my firm resolve to take them all back to Kingswood, he acted in a fashion which I can hardly describe. His loud and impudent remarks encouraged the others. They actually defied me, made a rumpus in the hotel, then stamped out into the street, as if they were a lot of rowdies. Not one of them has since put in an appearance. I consider John Hackett the most impudent boy I ever came across, and I hope it is not your custom to be guided by anything he may say.'
"A fine, hot roast for poor old 'Hatchet,'" gurgled Nat. "Uncle Parsons is certainly sore. Ha, ha! The whole crowd left him in the lurch."
Next morning, just after breakfast, Bob declared his intention of going to the post-office.
The members of the Rambler Club, accompanied by Nat Wingate, left the hotel in a body and were soon in the busiest section of the city.
"Where is Nat?" cried Dick Travers, a few moments later.
"That's so—what has become of him?" added Dave.