The typewriter had been ordered on the installment plan. Junior hadn’t saved enough money from his allowance to buy it outright. “He’s not going to get me a radio set until he finds out which is the best make on the market, he says.” “Oh, has he written to you?” Aunt Mary was still more surprised. “Every week,” said Junior. “Oh, Junior! I’m so glad. But why haven’t you ever told me, dear?” Junior smiled. “I didn’t want to make you jealous. He never writes to you.” “But didn’t you know how I would want to hear all his news?” “You are so terribly engrossed in Uncle Robert’s career, I thought maybe you weren’t interested in Father.” At school the binoculars made a hit with the boys because they showed the scars of war, but no one thought much of typewriters as Christmas presents except Junior. He knew what he was doing. A few days later, when Blackie entered the room he found his roommate engrossed in reading a letter and so said nothing until Junior emitted an absent-minded chuckle. “What’s the joke?” “Oh, nothing; just a letter from my father.” “From your father? I thought he never wrote to you.” “What do you know about it?” “Well, I never see any envelopes with foreign stamps.” “He always incloses mine in letters to my aunt.” “But you never mentioned them, all the same,” said Blackie, “except the one about the White House.” “They are confidential, mostly.” Junior returned to the absorbing letter. Presently he laughed outright. “What does he say that’s so funny?” “Oh, hell! Read it yourself.” Junior seemed irritated and tossed the bulky letter across to his roommate. It had taken the boy some time to compose this letter to himself, for it required more than the possession of a typewriter and his father’s engraved stationery to create a convincing illusion of a letter from a father. Junior had seen so few, except for those Blackie had allowed him to read, that he had no working model for long, interesting letters worthy of a great man like his father. The first draught had begun, “My darling boy,” but he changed that--it sounded too much like Blackie’s mother. He made it “My dearest son.” He rather fancied that, but finally played safe and addressed himself simply as “Dear Junior.” My work here is going fine. I have three thousand natives at work under me not to speak of a hundred engineers on my staff doing the technikal work. I am terribly busy but of course won’t let that interfere with my regular weekly letter to you. Junior was watching Blackie’s face. I often think of the last canoe trip with you in Canada and can hardly wait until I take another canoe trip with you in Canada. Remember that time you hooked a four-pounder with your three ounce rod? You were a little fellow then, that was before you went away to school. Remember how you yelled to me for help to land same?