All this correspondence had produced one reply, the letter on which Tommy’s hand still rested.  It was a brief note, signed “O.P.  Pym,” and engaging Mr. Sandys on his own recommendation, “if he really felt quite certain that his heart (treasure included) was in the work.”  So far good, Tommy had thought when he received this answer, but there was nothing in it to indicate the nature of the work, nothing to show whether O.P.  Pym was “Scholastic,” or “123,” or “Rex,” or any other advertiser in particular.  Stop, there was a postscript:  “I need not go into details about your duties, as you assure me you are so well acquainted with them, but before you join me please send (in writing) a full statement of what you think they are.”

There were delicate reasons why Mr. Sandys could not do that, but oh, he was anxious to be done with farm labour, so he decided to pack and risk it.  The letter said plainly that he was engaged; what for he must find out slyly when he came to London.  So he had put his letter firmly on Pym’s table; but it was a staggerer to find that gentleman in possession of the others.

One of these was Pym’s by right; the remainder were a humourous gift from the agent who was accustomed to sift the correspondence of his clients.  Pym had chuckled over them, and written a reply that he flattered himself would stump the boy; then he had unexpectedly come into funds (he found a forgotten check while searching his old pockets for tobacco-crumbs), and in that glory T. Sandys escaped his memory.  Result, that they were now face to face.

A tiny red spot, not noticeable before, now appeared in Tommy’s eyes.  It was never there except when he was determined to have his way.  Pym, my friend, yes, and everyone of you who is destined to challenge Tommy, ’ware that red light!

“Well, which am I?” demanded Pym, almost amused, Tommy was so obviously in a struggle with the problem.

The saucer and the blank pages told nothing.  “Whichever you are,” the boy answered heavily, “it’s not herding nor foddering cattle, and so long as it’s not that, I’ll put my heart in it, and where the heart is, there the treasure—­”

He suddenly remembered that his host must be acquainted with the sentiment.

Easy-going Pym laughed, then said irritably, “Of what use could a mere boy be to me?”

“Then it’s not the page-boy!” exclaimed Tommy, thankfully.

“Perhaps I am ‘Scholastic,’” suggested Pym.

“No,” said Tommy, after a long study of his face.

Pym followed this reasoning, and said touchily, “Many a schoolmaster has a red face.”

“Not that kind of redness,” explained Tommy, without delicacy.

“I am ‘H and H,’” said Pym.

“You forget you wrote to me as one person,” replied Tommy.  “So I did.  That was because I am the chemist; and I must ask you, Thomas, for your certificate.”

Tommy believed him this time, and Pym triumphantly poured himself a glass of whisky, spilling some of it on his dressing-gown.