"... poor soul ... dear! dear! ... what a silly old ass ... ah, would you ... don't do it, Billy...." To Hamilton's eyes the bulk of correspondence rather increased than diminished. "You must owe a lot of money," he said one day. "Eh!" "All these...!" Hamilton opened his hand to a floor littered with discarded envelopes. "I suppose they represent demands...." "Dear lad," said Bones brightly, "they represent popularity--I'm immensely popular, sir," he gulped a little as he fished out two dainty envelopes from the pile before him; "you may not have experienced the sensation, but I assure you, sir, it's pleasing, it's doocidly pleasing!" "Complacent ass," said Hamilton, and returned to his own correspondence. Systematically Bones went through his letters, now and again consulting a neat little morocco-covered note-book. (It would appear he kept a very careful record of every letter he wrote home, its contents, the date of its dispatch, and the reply thereto.) He had reduced letter writing to a passion, spent most of his evenings writing long epistles to his friends--mostly ladies of a tender age--and had incidentally acquired a reputation in the Old Country for his brilliant powers of narrative. This, Hamilton discovered quite by accident. It would appear that Hamilton's sister had been on a visit--was in fact on the visit when she wrote one letter which so opened Hamilton's eyes--and mentioned that she was staying with some great friends of Bones'. She did not, of course, call him "Bones," but "Mr. Tibbetts." "I should awfully like to meet him," she wrote, "he must be a very interesting man. Aggie Vernon had a letter from him yesterday wherein he described his awful experience lion-hunting. "To be chased by a lion and caught and then carried to the beast's lair must have been awful! "Mr. Tibbetts is very modest about it in his letter, and beyond telling Aggie that he escaped by sticking his finger in the lion's eye he says little of his subsequent adventure. By the way, Pat, Aggie tells me that you had a bad bout of fever and that Mr. Tibbetts carried you for some miles to the nearest doctor. I wish you wouldn't keep these things so secret, it worries me dreadfully unless you tell me--even the worst about yourself. I hope your interesting friend returned safely from his dangerous expedition into the interior--he was on the point of leaving when his letter was dispatched and was quite gloomy about his prospects...." Hamilton read this epistle over and over again, then he sent for Bones. That gentleman came most cheerfully, full of fine animal spirits, and---- "Just had a letter about you, Bones," said Hamilton carelessly. "About me, sir!" said Bones; "from the War Office--I'm not being decorated or anything!" he asked anxiously. "No--nothing so tragic; it was a letter from my sister, who is staying with the Vernons." "Oh!" said Bones going suddenly red.