mysterious bobbing in and out between the trees. We felt more like
high priests than patriots, but it was very festive and wonderful,
and when we ended by having cakes and lime-juice on the porch at
half-past nine, everybody agreed that it had been a real celebration
and quite different.

In spite of being up so late the night before, Greg was the first
one down to breakfast next morning. Our postman always brings the
mail just before the end of breakfast, and we can hear him click the
gate as he comes in. This morning Jerry and Greg dashed for the mail
together, and Greg squeezed through where Jerry thought he couldn't
and got there first. When they came back, Jerry was saying:

"Let me have it, won't you; it'll take you all day!" and dodging his
arm over Greg's shoulder.

"Messrs. Christopher, Gerald, and Gregory Holford; 17 Luke Street,"
Greg read slowly. Then he tripped over the threshold and floundered
on to me, flourishing the big envelope and shouting:

"It's funny paper, and it's funny writing, and I _know_ it's from
The Bottle!"

"My stars!" said Jerry, with a final snatch.

But I had the envelope, and I looked at it very carefully.

"Boys," I said, "I truly believe that it is."