“You ought to be an artist.  I never saw such a dabster as you are.  That’s the very moral of Joe, all in a bunch on the fence, with a blot to show how purple his nose was,” said Gus, holding up the sketch for general criticism and admiration.

“I’d rather have a red nose than legs like a grasshopper; so you needn’t twit, Daddy,” growled Joe, quite unconscious that a blot actually did adorn his nose, as he labored over a brief despatch.

The boys enjoyed the joke, and one after the other read out his message to the captive lady:—­

“Dear Jill,—­Sorry you ain’t here.  Great fun.  Jack pretty lively.  Laura and Lot would send love if they knew of the chance.  Fly round and get well.

“Gus”

“Dear Gilliflower,—­Hope you are pretty comfortable in your ‘dungeon cell.’  Would you like a serenade when the moon comes?  Hope you will soon be up again, for we miss you very much.  Shall be very happy to help in any way I can.  Love to your mother.  Your true friend,

“E.D.”

“Miss Pecq.

“Dear Madam,—­I am happy to tell you that we are all well, and hope you are the same.  I gave Jem Cox a licking because he went to your desk.  You had better send for your books.  You won’t have to pay for the sled or the fence.  Jack says he will see to it.  We have been having a spread over here.  First-rate things.  I wouldn’t mind breaking a leg, if I had such good grub and no chores to do.  No more now, from yours, with esteem,

“Joseph P. Flint”

Joe thought that an elegant epistle, having copied portions of it from the “Letter Writer,” and proudly read it off to the boys, who assured him that Jill would be much impressed.

“Now, Jack, hurry up and let us send the lot off, for we must go,” said Gus, as Frank put the letters in the basket, and the clatter of tea-things was heard below.

“I’m not going to show mine.  It’s private and you mustn’t look,” answered Jack, patting down an envelope with such care that no one had a chance to peep.

But Joe had seen the little note copied, and while the others were at the window working the telegraph he caught up the original, carelessly thrust by Jack under the pillow, and read it aloud before any one knew what he was about.

“My Dear,—­I wish I could send you some of my good times.  As I can’t, I send you much love, and I hope you will try and be patient as I am going to, for it was our fault, and we must not make a fuss now.  Ain’t mothers sweet?  Mine is coming over to-morrow to see you and tell me how you are.  This round thing is a kiss for good-night.

“Your Jack”

“Isn’t that spoony?  You’d better hide your face, I think.  He’s getting to be a regular mollycoddle, isn’t he?” jeered Joe, as the boys laughed, and then grew sober, seeing Jack’s head buried in the bedclothes, after sending a pillow at his tormentor.

It nearly hit Mrs. Minot, coming in with her patient’s tea on a tray, and at sight of her the guests hurriedly took leave, Joe nearly tumbling downstairs to escape from Frank, who would have followed, if his mother had not said quickly, “Stay, and tell me what is the matter.”