suppose he really does want us to write to him?"

"Of course he does," Greg said; "he tells us to often enough. Think
of being alone out there with savages, and that bearded chief coming
with poison bottles and all."

"Shut up, Greg," said Jerry; "you don't understand. There's more in
this than meets the eye, Chris. I didn't get on to this crab salad
business when you read it."

Neither had I; in fact, I hadn't got on to it until Jerry said it in
proper English.

"He's a good sort, poor old dear," I said. "Why do you suppose they
keep him out there?"

"He's there of his own free will, right enough," Jerry said.

But I didn't think so.

We were still confabbing over the letter, and explaining bits to
Greg, who was hopelessly mystified, when Mother came out to
transplant some columbine that had wandered into the lawn. We did a
quick secret consultation and then decided to let her in on the
Castaway. So we bolted after her and took away the trowel and showed
her the letter. She read it through twice, and then said:

"Oh, Ailsa must hear this, and Father!" But what we wanted to know
was whether or not we might write to the Castaway, because we didn't
quite want to without letting her know about it. She laughed some