It was closely written on both sides the thin sheet—­evidently of foreign make—­and although the writing was faded it was still clearly legible.

After the first perusal Sarah Judd leaned her elbows on the table and her head on her hands and proceeded to study the epistle still more closely.  Then she drew from her pocket a notebook and pencil and with infinite care made a copy of the entire letter, writing it in her book in shorthand.  This accomplished, she replaced the letter in the rifle stock and hung the weapon on its pegs again.

Both the window and the glass door of the den faced the back yard.  Sarah opened the door and stood there in deep thought, watching Bub at his work.  Then she returned to the table and opening a drawer drew out a sheet of blank paper.  On this she wrote the following words: 

“John Folger, 1601 F. Street, Washington, D. C.

Nothing under sterling over letter bobbing every kernel sad mother making frolic better quick.  If England rumples paper Russia admires money.

Sarah Judd.”

Each word of this preposterous phrasing she wrote after consulting another book hidden cleverly among the coils of her red hair—­a tiny book it—­was, filled with curious characters.  When the writing was finished the girl seemed well satisfied with her work.  After tucking away the book in its former place she went to her room, got her purse and then proceeded to the shed and confronted Bub.

“I want you to drive this car to Millbank, to the telegraph office at the railway station,” said Sarah.

Bub gave her a scornful look.

“Ye’re crazy,” he said and went on with his polishing.

“That needn’t worry you,” retorted the girl.

“It don’t,” declared Bub.

“You can drive and you’re going to,” she continued.  “I’ve got to send this telegram quick, and you’ve got to take it.”  She opened her purse and placed two coins on the fender of the car.  “There’s a dollar to pay for the message, and there’s a five-dollar gold-piece to pay you for your trouble.”

Bub gave a gasp.  He came up beside her and stared at the money.  Then he turned to look at Sarah Judd.

“What’s up?” he demanded.

“Private business.  Don’t ask questions; you’d only get lies for answers.  Go and earn your money.”

“Miss’ Conant, she’s gone to Millbank herself.  Ef she sees me there, I’ll git fired.  The boss’ll fire me himself, anyhow, fer usin’ the car when he tol’ me not to.”

“How much do you get a week!” asked Sarah.

“Four bits.”

“That’s about two dollars a month.  In two months the Conants will move back to the city, and by then you’ll have earned four dollars.  Why, Bub, it’s cheaper for you to take this five-dollar gold-piece and get fired, than to work for two months for four dollars.”

Bub scratched his head in perplexity.

“Ye ain’t count’n’ on the fun o’ workin’,” he suggested.