“Hold on, boys,” said a quiet voice. It was their host Falloner, who had just risen and was slipping on his oilskin coat. “You've got enough to do, I reckon, to look after your own folks. I've none! Let this be my affair. I've got to go to the Express Office anyhow to see about my passage home, and I'll just get a draft for a hundred dollars for that old skeesicks--what's his blamed name? Oh, Ricketts”--he made a memorandum from the letter--“and I'll send it by express. Meantime, you fellows sit down there and write something--you know what--saying that Dick's hurt his hand and can't write--you know; but asked you to send a draft, which you're doing. Sabe? That's all! I'll skip over to the express now and get the draft off, and you can mail the letter an hour later. So put your dust back in your pockets and help yourselves to the whiskey while I'm gone.” He clapped his hat on his head and disappeared. “There goes a white man, you bet!” said Fletcher admiringly, as the door closed behind their host. “Now, boys,” he added, drawing a chair to the table, “let's get this yer letter off, and then go back to our game.” Pens and ink were produced, and an animated discussion ensued as to the matter to be conveyed. Daddy's plea for an extended explanatory and sympathetic communication was overruled, and the letter was written to Ricketts on the simple lines suggested by Falloner. “But what about poor little Jim's letter? That ought to be answered,” said Daddy pathetically. “If Dick hurt his hand so he can't write to Ricketts, how in thunder is he goin' to write to Jim?” was the reply. “But suthin' oughter be said to the poor kid,” urged Daddy piteously. “Well, write it yourself--you and Gus Houston make up somethin' together. I'm going to win some money,” retorted Fletcher, returning to the card-table, where he was presently followed by all but Daddy and Houston. “Ye can't write it in Dick's name, because that little brother knows Dick's handwriting, even if he don't remember his face. See?” suggested Houston. “That's so,” said Daddy dubiously; “but,” he added, with elastic cheerfulness, “we can write that Dick 'says.' See?” “Your head's level, old man! Just you wade in on that.” Daddy seized the pen and “waded in.” Into somewhat deep and difficult water, I fancy, for some of it splashed into his eyes, and he sniffled once or twice as he wrote. “Suthin' like this,” he said, after a pause:-- DEAR LITTLE JIMMIE,--Your big brother havin' hurt his hand, wants me to tell you that otherways he is all hunky and A1. He says he don't forget you and little Cissy, you bet! and he's sendin' money to old Ricketts straight off. He says don't you and Cissy mind whether school keeps or not as long as big Brother Dick holds the lines. He says he'd have written before, but he's bin follerin' up a lead mighty close, and expects to strike it rich in a few days.