“Well, they had a son, named after me—Percival Bigelow James. I got a letter from my sister. Seems he’s turned out bad.”
“That so?” Ducky roused himself into a sitting position. This was better. “Rob a bank or something?”
Dog shook his head.
“Nope. Turned poet.”
“Good gosh!” Ducky slumped again. Dog went on with it.
“He must be about twenty-five or -six years old now. You remember when we were in Klondike we got a letter from my sister about her having a kid, and I made him a nugget watchchain.”
“Oh, yes. You bummed most of those nuggets off me. But what about it? Ten minutes ago you were in a tooting hurry to get home, and now you sit here drooling like a new calf.”
“I’m breaking it to you gently,” said Dog. “Fact is, Ducky, this letter says the boy’s health aint been any too good. Threatened with T.B., I reckon, though she don’t come right out with it. My sister wants this Percival to come out and pay us a visit.”
“Huh?”
“Yea-ah. I’ll read you the finish of it.” He pulled the letter from the pocket of his shirt, shucked the many closely written leaves from the envelope and read the concluding sentences. “‘And so, because I know that you would refuse, yet dare not give you an opportunity to refuse, I have arranged for Percy to start West on the day after mailing this letter, and of course you will arrange to meet him; and while your life must be rude and living-quarters of the roughest, we are sure that the change will be just what he needs. We have bought his ticket and berth and shall furnish him with funds to pay for meals and incidentals, but he must work and earn and stay with you until he has earned enough to bring him home again. This is part of our plan—a return to health, and the necessary discipline to make a man of him.’”