It was that week that Jerry sprained his ankle jumping off the porch-roof and had to sit in the big wicker chair with his foot on a pillow for days.  He hated it, but he didn’t make any fuss at all, which was decent of him considering that the weather was the best we’d had all summer.  We played chess, which he likes because he can always beat me, and also “Pounce,” which pulls your eyes out after a little while and burns holes in your brain.  It’s that frightful card game where you try to get rid of thirteen cards before any one else, and snatch at aces in the middle, on top of everybody.  Jerry is horribly clever at it and shouts “Pounce!” first almost every time.  Greg always has at least twelve of his thirteen cards left and explains to you very carefully how he had it all planned very far ahead and would have won if Jerry hadn’t said “Pounce” so soon.

Also, Father let Jerry play the ’cello, and he made heavenly hideous sounds which he said were exactly like what the Sea Monster’s voice would be if it had one.  Just when we were all rather despairing, because Dr. Topham said that Jerry mustn’t walk for two days more, the very thing happened which we’d been hoping for.  Greg came up all the porch steps at once with one bounce, brandishing a square envelope and shouting: 

“The Bottle Man!”

It was addressed to all of us, but I turned it over to Jerry to do the honors with, on account of his being a poor invalid and Abused by Fate.  He had the envelope open in two shakes, with the complicated knife he always carries, and pulled out any amount of paper.  He stared at the top page for a minute, and then said: 

“Here, Greg, this is for you.  You can be pawing over it while we’re reading the proper one.”

But I said, “Not so fast,” and “Let’s hear it all, one at a time.”

So I took Greg’s and read it aloud, because he takes such an everlasting time over handwriting and this writing was rather queer and hard to read.  This is his letter: 

  Respected Comrade Gregory Holford:

I am writing to you separately because you wrote to me separately, and very much I liked your letter.  I cannot tell you how much relieved I am to hear that toast has been substituted for barnacles in your diet.  In the long run, toast is far better for a mariner, however hardy he may be.

It is indeed a long way from Wecanicut to the Equator,—­but are you sure you measured to ME.—­Mid Equator?  It is very different, you know.  The bearded one is pleased with me and has not brought his poison bottles of late, but thank you for not wanting me to die just now.  I do not know of any treasure in Bluar Boor, but I refer you to the enclosed letter which tells something of treasure elsewhere.  I hope your search on Wecanicut, my dear sir, will be richly rewarded.

  Please note that I refer to natives, not savages.  There
  is a vasty difference; more than you perhaps might suppose.