With my chopping hook still in my hand I ran down the rocky path towards them, and arrived at the water’s edge just as they were about to run the boat ashore.  I did not know what their intention in landing might be, so shook the chopper at them to warn them off.  My stature, and the sight of my bare right arm, had their due effect, for they sheered off, a few boats’ lengths, much to my relief.  I soon found, however, that they were two of the men of Herm on a very peaceful mission, as they simply came to deliver a letter to me which a boat had brought over from St. Peter Port.  I dare not speak, or could have asked them their mission, and they seemed quite dumbfounded at my bellicose attitude towards them.

The man in the stern now held up the letter, upon which I pantomimically intimated my wish that he should come close in and throw the letter to me.  I then, lest they should be afraid to approach, threw my chopper as far behind me as I could, sending it clattering among the boulders nearly up to the cliff.  Then the man in the stern folded the letter in two, and tied a piece of spun yarn round it, to which he attached a piece of stone, and tossed it to me.  It fell fluttering near me, and I was almost afraid to pick it up, for fear it might contain some bad news of my family; but stooping, I secured it, placing it in my shirt bosom.  Then by signs I expressed my thanks to the kind Hermese who had brought the missive.

When they had pulled out of sight towards Herm I sat down on a rock, and very mistrustfully drew forth the crumpled envelope.  Was my father dead?  What of Priscilla?  Was mother ailing?  These and a hundred other questions flashed across my mind as I slowly broke open the envelope.  It was a letter from my dear old dad.  Short, but quite assuring it ran: 

     “MY DEAR BOY,

“All is well.  On the 2nd of March you will have occupied Jethou just twelve months.  Some of my Yarmouth friends say I am cruel to allow you to stay alone so long, and think you must be so broken down by your exile, that nothing would keep you in Jethou six months longer.  Young Johnson has even gone so far as to say he would wager you one hundred pounds you dare not stay another six months, and I therefore write to make known his offer, which I have in black and white, duly signed by him.

“Write me the word, YES or NO, only.

“Your affectionate Father,

“WILLIAM K. NILFORD.”

What a curious letter from my father after all these months!  Not a word as to himself, mother, or Priscilla.  Not a line of news except the first three words, “All is well.”  That was assuring, at any rate, and made me feel happy.  Young Johnson was the squire’s son, a dashing, go-ahead fellow, but not greatly liked in the village, by reason of his haughtiness.

Although I had been looking forward to my return home I would not go to be laughed at by our Yarmouth friends; no, I would stay at all risks, and with the one hundred pounds I could make my future bride, Priscilla, a grand present.  Yes, my mind was made up at once, and if the men had been within hail they might have come back and received my answer to send over to the St. Peter Port post office, from which the packet would take it to England, so that in about three or four days my father would receive it.