The post-office, called such by courtesy, the office consisting of the spare room of whatsoever fisherman or farmer happened to be honoured with Uncle Sam’s appointment, was about a mile from the harbour of Southport. It was, in this case, in the house of one Jerry Bryant, and was about a quarter of a mile, or less, from the western shore of the island, where a small cove made in from that bay. “Good evening, Mr. Bryant,” said George Warren, as they arrived at the post-office door. “Mail in yet?” “Be here right away,” replied the postmaster. “I saw Jeff’s packet coming in a moment ago. There he comes now up the lane.” Jeff Hackett, whose commission it was to fetch the mail across from the mainland in a small sloop daily, now appeared with a mail-sack over his shoulder. The formality of receiving the attenuated mail-sack and sorting its somewhat meagre contents, being duly observed, Postmaster Bryant threw open a small sliding door, poked his head out, and was ready for inquiries. “Anything for the Warren cottage?” “Not a thing.” “Anything for the neighbours, a few doors below?” “Nothing for them, either.” “Looks as though we had come over for nothing,” said George Warren. “Too bad, but you fellows don’t mind the walk, do you?” “Not a bit,” answered Henry Burns. They were departing, when the postmaster hailed them. “Say,” he called out, “who is Jack Harvey? He is the chap that caught Chambers, isn’t he? Doesn’t he stop over near you, somewhere?” “Here I am,” said Harvey, taken by surprise. “What do you want?” “Why, I’ve got a letter for you,” said the postmaster. “It has been here three days. I couldn’t find out where you were.” “Well, that’s odd,” exclaimed Harvey, stepping back and receiving the envelope. “I never got one before. Say, we came over for something, after all.” He tore open the envelope and read the letter enclosed. “Whew!” he exclaimed as he finished. “That’s tough.” And he gave a disconsolate whistle. “What’s the matter? Nothing bad, I hope,” asked Henry Burns. In reply, Harvey handed him the letter. It was dated from Boston, and read as follows: “My dear Jack:—Sorry to have to write you bad news, but you are big enough to stand it, I had to work hard when I was a boy, and perhaps you may now, but you’ll come out all right in the end. I don’t know just where I stand, myself. Investments have gone wrong, and Saunders has brought suit in court, claiming title to the land where the mine is. May beat him out. Don’t know. He is a rascal, but may win. “Now I haven’t got a dollar to send you, and don’t see where I’ll get any all summer for you, as I shall need every cent to pay bills. I have got to go out to borrow money to pay lawyers, too, to fight the case. “Too bad, but you will have to come home, or shift for yourself for the summer. Let me know, and I’ll send money for your fare, if you are coming.