didn't come, and we supposed he'd gone to feed a tame toad he had
that year, or something. The toad lived under the syringa bush
beside the gate, and Greg insisted that it came out when he whistled
for it, but it never would perform when we went on purpose to watch
it, so I don't know whether it did or not.

Under the hemlock is one of the best places in the garden for
councils and such. The branches quite touch the grass, and when you
creep under them you are in a dark, golden sort of tent, crackley
and sweet-smelling. You can slither pine-needles through your
fingers as you discuss, too, and it helps you to think. We thought
for quite a long time, and then I got out the letter and spread it
down in one of the wavy patches of sunlight, and we read it again.

"Did you really think anybody'd find it?" Jerry asked suddenly, and
I told him I hadn't thought so.

"Neither did I," he said; "let alone such a jolly old soul. Why,
he'd be better than Aunt on a picnic."

"I do wonder why he has to stay there," I said.

"Perhaps he's a fugitive from justice," Jerry suggested; "or perhaps
he's a prisoner and the bearded person comes out with Spanish
Inquisition things to make him confess his horrible crime."

"He _sounds_ like a person who'd done a horrible crime, doesn't he!"
I said in scorn.

"Well, then," said Jerry, who really has the most inspired ideas for
plots, "perhaps he's an innocent old man whose wicked nephews want
to frighten him into changing his will, leaving an enormous fortune
to them. And they're keeping him on the island till he'll do it."

"Well, whatever it is," I said, "I don't think he's awfully happy
somehow, and it's nice of him to write such a gorgeous thing."

So we both decided that whether he was staying on the island of his
own free will, or in bondage, in any case it must be frightfully
dull for him and that our letter ought to be interesting and
cheerful.

Just then the hemlock branches thrashed apart and Greg crawled under
with pine-needles in his hair. He sat back on his heels and blinked
at us, because he'd just come out of the sunlight.

"I thought _some_body ought to write to the Bottle Man," he said,
"so I did."

"Well, I never!" Jerry said.

Greg fished up a bent piece of paper from inside his jumper and
handed it to me.

"You can see it," he said, "but not Jerry."

"As if I'd want to!" Jerry said; but he did, fearfully.

Greg is the most unexpected person I ever knew.