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“Here’s a whole bunch of mail,” exclaimed Roy, mildly indignant. “I wish she’d let it alone. Here’s two for you and one for me. This looks like—yes, it’s from Dick. And I guess this one—” he studied it under the light—“I guess this is from the artist man. Anyway, the postmark’s New York, and—”

“Well, hand ’em over, you idiot,” said Chub.

“Come and get them. You can’t see to read over there,” replied Roy tranquilly. Chub hesitated, groaned, and finally followed the suggestion.

“Yes, this is from Dickums,” he muttered as he tore off the end of the envelop. “I hope he can come. Who’s yours from?”

“Dad,” answered Roy, settling into his chair and beginning to read. But he wasn’t destined to finish his letter just then, for in a moment Chub had rudely disturbed him.

“It’s all right!” he cried. “Listen, Roy; let me read this to you.”

“He’s coming?” asked Roy eagerly, abandoning his own letter.

“Yes. Listen.” Chub pulled up a chair, sat down, and began to read: “‘Dear Chub: Yours of no date—’”