Under the hemlock is one of the best places in the garden for councils and such.  The branches quite touch the grass, and when you creep under them you are in a dark, golden sort of tent, crackley and sweet-smelling.  You can slither pine-needles through your fingers as you discuss, too, and it helps you to think.  We thought for quite a long time, and then I got out the letter and spread it down in one of the wavy patches of sunlight, and we read it again.

“Did you really think anybody’d find it?” Jerry asked suddenly, and I told him I hadn’t thought so.

“Neither did I,” he said; “let alone such a jolly old soul.  Why, he’d be better than Aunt on a picnic.”

“I do wonder why he has to stay there,” I said.

“Perhaps he’s a fugitive from justice,” Jerry suggested; “or perhaps he’s a prisoner and the bearded person comes out with Spanish Inquisition things to make him confess his horrible crime.”

“He sounds like a person who’d done a horrible crime, doesn’t he!” I said in scorn.

“Well, then,” said Jerry, who really has the most inspired ideas for plots, “perhaps he’s an innocent old man whose wicked nephews want to frighten him into changing his will, leaving an enormous fortune to them.  And they’re keeping him on the island till he’ll do it.”

“Well, whatever it is,” I said, “I don’t think he’s awfully happy somehow, and it’s nice of him to write such a gorgeous thing.”

So we both decided that whether he was staying on the island of his own free will, or in bondage, in any case it must be frightfully dull for him and that our letter ought to be interesting and cheerful.

Just then the hemlock branches thrashed apart and Greg crawled under with pine-needles in his hair.  He sat back on his heels and blinked at us, because he’d just come out of the sunlight.

“I thought somebody ought to write to the Bottle Man,” he said, “so I did.”

“Well, I never!” Jerry said.

Greg fished up a bent piece of paper from inside his jumper and handed it to me.

“You can see it,” he said, “but not Jerry.”

“As if I’d want to!” Jerry said; but he did, fearfully.

Greg is the most unexpected person I ever knew.  He’s always doing things like that, when everyone else has given up.

I spread his paper out on top of the other letter, and he sprawled down beside me, all ready to explain with his finger.  What with his dreadfully bad writing and the sunlight moving off the paper all the time as the branches swayed, it took me ever so long to read the thing.  This is what it was: 

  Dear Bottle Man: