“Did you say you have a cousin Willie in Boston, Clinton?” continued Oscar.

“Yes, Willie Davenport,” replied Clinton.

“I know him—­he’s about your size, is n’t he? and his father is a lawyer?”

“Yes, that’s him—­why, I want to know if you know him?”

“O yes; he goes to our school.  The boys have nicknamed him Whistler, because he whistles so much; but he ’s a real clever fellow, for all that.  My brother Ralph is quite intimate with him.  It’s strange that I never knew before that he had relations down here,” added Oscar.

“Do you know his sister, Ettie?” inquired Clinton.

“No, I never saw her,” replied Oscar.

“Come into the house with me,—­I must tell mother we ’ve heard from Boston,” said Clinton.

They all entered the house, and Mrs. Davenport was soon informed of the pleasant discovery they had made, and had many questions to ask concerning her Boston friends.  Oscar seemed to become at once an old acquaintance.  The fact that he was a schoolmate of Willie gave him a direct passport to the good graces of all the family.  When Oscar called to mind his peculiar relations towards Willie, this unlooked-for friendship was not particularly agreeable to him; for he was not, and never had been, on very friendly terms with Clinton’s cousin.  This, however, was more than he dared say to Clinton, and so he concealed his dislike of Willie as well as he could.

After sitting in the house a little while, Clinton invited Oscar and Jerry into the “shop,” which was a room back of the kitchen, where Mr. Davenport kept a variety of carpenter’s tools.  Here, in cold and stormy weather, Clinton’s father mended his broken tools and implements, and performed such other jobs as were required.  Clinton, too, spent many odd moments at the work-bench, and patient practice had made him quite a neat and skilful workman.  He showed the boys several boxes, a pine table, and a cricket, made entirely by his own hands, which would have done no discredit to a regular carpenter.

After remaining an hour or two with Clinton, Oscar and Jerry started for home, well pleased with their visit.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE LETTER.

“Oscar, you have n’t written home since you came down here, have you?” inquired Mr. Preston one morning at the breakfast table.

“No, sir,” replied Oscar.

“Well, you ought to write,” added Mr. Preston; “your mother told you to, and I suppose she has been looking for a letter every day for a week or more.  It’s over a fortnight since you left home, and your folks will feel anxious about you, if they don’t hear from you soon.  You ’d better write a letter to them this morning, before you do anything else, and then it will be out of the way.  I shall either go or send over to the post-office to-day, and the letter will start for Boston to-morrow morning, and get there the next day.”