Part 28 (1/2)

I went into the library where my wife, Beth, Rob, and Ptolemy were sitting.

”Ptolemy,” I said, handing him the letter, ”here is your communication to Uncle Issachar, returned.”

He lost some of his usual _sang froid_ and appeared quite disconcerted.

”Why, Ptolemy,” exclaimed Silvia in consternation, ”what in the world did you write to Uncle Issachar about?”

Ptolemy had recovered and was quite himself again.

”About us,” he said innocently. ”As the oldest of our family, I thought I ought to do a little explaining.”

”And I think,” I said, looking at him keenly, ”that we have the right to know what your explanation was.”

Ptolemy handed me over the letter.

”Read it aloud,” he said, with the air of one who is proud of his productions.

Rob's eyes shone in antic.i.p.ation.

I broke the seal. A note from the secretary fell out. It was an apology for not returning the letter sooner, but it had been inadvertently mislaid. I then read aloud the letter Ptolemy had written:

”Dear Uncle Issachar

”I am sorry Diogenes and I were away when you were here. You thought the others were fine, but you should have seen--Diogenes.

I hope you will send mudder back her check, because there is lots of things she needs, and it takes a lot of money to take care of all us. You see our own father and mother don't want to be bothered with us and they went away and left us, and so we are living with mudder the same as if we were really her adopted children, and if her own would have been worth five thousand per to you, I think her adopted children ought to be worth half as much anyway, so it would only be fair to send her a check for $12,500 anyway, and if you are a good sport like the kids said you were, you'll send back her check.

”Yours truly, ”P. Issachar Polydore Wade.”

Rob's laughter was so free and spontaneous that I had to join in against my will. Ptolemy, who had seemed a little apprehensive of the verdict, looked accordingly relieved.

”That's a fine letter, young man,” approved Rob. ”Stepdaddy ought to take you into his law firm.”

”No,” declared Beth. ”I think Ptolemy has inherited his mother's gift.

He should be a writer.”

”Not on your life!” cried Ptolemy with feeling. ”I want to live things instead of writing about them.”

A tear or two came into Silvia's eyes.

”It was very sweet in you, Ptolemy, to try to get the money for mudder.”

I felt that all this commendation was bad for Ptolemy, and that it was up to me to take a reef in his sails.