THE LETTER.
"Oscar, you have n't written home since you came down here, have you?" inquired Mr. Preston one morning at the breakfast table.
"No, sir," replied Oscar.
"Well, you ought to write," added Mr. Preston; "your mother told you to, and I suppose she has been looking for a letter every day for a week or more. It's over a fortnight since you left home, and your folks will feel anxious about you, if they don't hear from you soon. You 'd better write a letter to them this morning, before you do anything else, and then it will be out of the way. I shall either go or send over to the post-office to-day, and the letter will start for Boston to-morrow morning, and get there the next day."
"O dear, I hate to write," said Oscar. "Why can't you write to mother, aunt, and tell her how I am?"
"No, no," said Mr. Preston, "that won't do. You promised your mother that you would write yourself, and she 'll expect to hear from you, and not from somebody else. Your aunt can write, if she chooses, but you must write too. I 'll give you a pen and some paper and ink after breakfast, and you can write just a much as you please."
"I guess it won't be much—I don't know how to write a letter," replied Oscar.
"A boy of your age not know how to write a letter—and been all your lifetime to such grand schools as they have in Boston, too! I don't believe that," said Mr. Preston, shaking his head.
"I shall have to go and see the Shanghae Rooster," said Oscar, looking at Jerry very knowingly.
Jerry laughed at this allusion, but the others did not appear to understand its meaning. It was evident that they were innocent of all knowledge of the mysterious letter; and as Jerry wished them to remain so, he adroitly turned the remark by replying: