Nicky-Nan carried the letter indoors to his small, dark sitting-room, and there spelled it through painfully, holding the paper close up to the window-pane.  It ran:—­

                                                 Sunday, 2/8/14. 
     Mr N. Nanjivell.

Sir,—­As an inhabitant of Polpier, born in the town and anxious for its good name, besides being a ratepayer and one that pays taxes to His Majesty, I was naterally concerned to-day at your not taking your place along with the other men that went off to fight for their country.  I am given to understand that you were served with a paper, same as the rest, and the Customs Officer was put out by your not going.  I don’t wonder at it.  Such want of pluck.

Its no good your saying you are not Abel.  If you are Abel to be a Reservist and draw pay, you are Abel to Fight thats how I look at it.  I would let you to know the Public doesnt pay money for gamey legs that go about taking all they can get until the Pinch comes.

Theres a good many things want looking into in Polpier, It has
reached me that until the present sistem came in and put a stop
to it you drew pay for years for drills that you never atended.

This is a time when as Lord Nelson said England expects every
Man to Do his Duty.  I think so bad of your case that I am
writing by same post to the Custom House at Troy about it. 
So I warn you as

                                    A Well-Wisher.

Nicky-Nan read this amiable missive through, and re-read it almost to the end before realising the menace of it.  At the first perusal his mind was engaged with the mechanical task of deciphering the script and with speculating on its authorship. . . .  He came to the end with no full grasp of the purport.

His wits were dulled, too, being preoccupied—­in spite of Lippity-Libby—­with suspicions of Mr Pamphlett.  He recognised the hand of an enemy; and though conscious of possessing few friends in the world (none, maybe—­he did not care how many or how few, anyway), he was aware of one only enemy—­Pamphlett.  He held this tenement which Pamphlett openly coveted:  but what besides had he that any one could envy?  Who else could wish him worse off than he was?  His broken past, his present poverty and daily mental anguish, his future sans hope—­any one who wanted these might take ’em and welcome!

But when, on the second reading, he reached the last paragraph but one, his heart stood still for a moment as if under a sudden stab.