“But what about poor little Jim’s letter?  That ought to be answered,” said Daddy pathetically.

“If Dick hurt his hand so he can’t write to Ricketts, how in thunder is he goin’ to write to Jim?” was the reply.

“But suthin’ oughter be said to the poor kid,” urged Daddy piteously.

“Well, write it yourself—­you and Gus Houston make up somethin’ together.  I’m going to win some money,” retorted Fletcher, returning to the card-table, where he was presently followed by all but Daddy and Houston.

“Ye can’t write it in Dick’s name, because that little brother knows Dick’s handwriting, even if he don’t remember his face.  See?” suggested Houston.

“That’s so,” said Daddy dubiously; “but,” he added, with elastic cheerfulness, “we can write that Dick ‘says.’  See?”

“Your head’s level, old man!  Just you wade in on that.”

Daddy seized the pen and “waded in.”  Into somewhat deep and difficult water, I fancy, for some of it splashed into his eyes, and he sniffled once or twice as he wrote.  “Suthin’ like this,” he said, after a pause:—­

Dear little Jimmie,—­Your big brother havin’ hurt his hand, wants me to tell you that otherways he is all hunky and A1.  He says he don’t forget you and little Cissy, you bet! and he’s sendin’ money to old Ricketts straight off.  He says don’t you and Cissy mind whether school keeps or not as long as big Brother Dick holds the lines.  He says he’d have written before, but he’s bin follerin’ up a lead mighty close, and expects to strike it rich in a few days.

“You ain’t got no sabe about kids,” said Daddy imperturbably; “they’ve got to be humored like sick folks.  And they want everythin’ big—­they don’t take no stock in things ez they are—­even ef they hev ’em worse than they are.  ‘So,’” continued Daddy, reading to prevent further interruption, “‘he says you’re just to keep your eyes skinned lookin’ out for him comin’ home any time—­day or night.  All you’ve got to do is to sit up and wait.  He might come and even snake you out of your beds!  He might come with four white horses and a nigger driver, or he might come disguised as an ornary tramp.  Only you’ve got to be keen on watchin’.’ (Ye see,” interrupted Daddy explanatorily, “that’ll jest keep them kids lively.) ‘He says Cissy’s to stop cryin’ right off, and if Willie Walker hits yer on the right cheek you just slug out with your left fist, ‘cordin’ to Scripter.’  Gosh,” ejaculated Daddy, stopping suddenly and gazing anxiously at Houston, “there’s that blamed photograph—­I clean forgot that.”

“And Dick hasn’t got one in the shop, and never had,” returned Houston emphatically.  “Golly! that stumps us!  Unless,” he added, with diabolical thoughtfulness, “we take Bob’s?  The kids don’t remember Dick’s face, and Bob’s about the same age.  And it’s a regular star picture—­you bet!  Bob had it taken in Sacramento—­in all his war paint.  See!” He indicated a photograph pinned against the wall—­a really striking likeness which did full justice to Bob’s long silken mustache and large, brown determined eyes.  “I’ll snake it off while they ain’t lookin’, and you jam it in the letter.  Bob won’t miss it, and we can fix it up with Dick after he’s well, and send another.”