Letter No. 1. Hugh John's Letter.

Dear Mr. Publisher—You won't remember me, though once I came to your office with father to see you. You may recall the circumstance, because it was the first day your son went to college. I was quite a little chap then, and did not know what it was to be the son of an author with the habit of making people believe that he is writing about his own family, when half the time he is just making up. Or, as like as not, it was his own very self that did the things he blames on us. Anyway, a fellow has to be pretty stiff on his pins and pretty handy with his knuckles to be a good author's son in a big school. I came through right-side-up, however, but sometimes it must come hard on the little chaps.

You see, the fellows want to know all the time if you really said or did some fool thing or other that father has stuffed into the books, and of which you are as innocent as Abel was of the murder of Cain. (He was. It's all right—only sounds rum!)

But of course a fellow does not go back on his father at school. He can't afford to let anything like that pass. So of course there's a row—sometimes bigger, sometimes shorter, according to the length of time it takes the other fellow to decide about crying, "Hold, enough!" as they do in plays. Or, as we call it at school, "backing down."

Well, I put my time through at school, and by and by the fellows got to know—that is, after several little difficulties had been adjusted. Not that I like having to fight. It is right to be patient just as long as ever you can. And then, when you can't—why, the best way and the quickest is to let her rip. Finish it good, once and for all. As father says, "Keep the peace, my boy! But if the other fellow won't, why, make him! First have your quarrel just, and then remember to open with your left!"

Yes, of course, at school I back up what father has written, every word. It is what I am there for, and I mean to do it. That's playing the game. But what I did not bargain for was the whole family chipping in, and making a kind of lop-sided, ice-cream-freezer hero of a chap. Sis had no business with what is my business—about Cissy Carter, I mean. At any rate she knows nothing about it really. Girls imagine all sorts of nonsense, of course. You can't stop them imagining, and if you think you can, why, you're a fool. That's all in the day's work, and I am not whining. But with regard to anything or person not "girlie-girl," I, Hugh John Picton Smith, give due notice that the first chap who turns up to me anything that Sis has imagined about Miss Cissy Carter, and especially about Miss Elizabeth Fortinbras, is going to get a calm and peaceful surprise—that may or may not confine him to his room for a day or two, but which, in any case, will afford him matter for reflection.

Oh, I don't in the least want to queer Sis, or to say that she has put down anything not quite true, as far as she understands it. It isn't that I did not do these things. But Sis being a girl, and the safety-valves of her imagination-boiler shut tight, and "Full Steam Ahead" ordered—why, I would rather have father on the job any day. He at least only puts things down (or invents them). He does not try to explain what's going on in a chap's inside. Besides, I don't see that it is anybody's business—and after this, on the whole, it had better not be. That "glacial reserve" (wasn't it?) which Sis yarned about might break up, and somebody who wasn't insured get hurt with the pieces. Please put this at the end, Mr. Publisher, to prevent mistakes. And if ever I write a book you shall publish it, and then at last the world will know the right and the wrong of things. Excuse bad writing. Our chaps played Smasherhampton on Saturday. It was pretty thick in the second half. The Smashers got me down and rolled me about a bit on the hardish ground. My arm is still in a sling, but it will be all right for Saturday fortnight, when we play a return on our own ground. I am going to play a return match too, for I know the fellow that did it.

(Signed) Hugh John Picton Smith.

Letter No. 2. From Cadet George Percival Picton Smith, R. N., Royal Naval Coll., Dartbourne.

Dear Mr. Publisher—You can print any ...[3] thing you like about me—true or not, it does not matter. Only in the latter case it will come a little dearer. I am called Toady Lion, and I have stood this sort of thing ever since I can remember. Though I must say father has been awfully decent about it, and I got a Rudge-Whitworth "free-wheel" out of him two years running on the strength of what you sent him. But there's no hope of coming that with Sis, who is always "stony," anyway, and won't believe what an awfully expensive place the Coll. is. My "bike" is going to be awfully dangerous this year—that is, if I don't get a new one somehow. It is only my second best, and much too small for me. I might get killed, very likely, and then you couldn't publish any more books about me! I suppose you don't feel as if you could ... No? That means "Yes," but don't let on to father. For, you see, last summer, when I had measles or something, I sold my best machine to a poor boy who hadn't any. Just think of that—the cruelty of it! But as I have never let my left hand know what my right hand does, I don't want father to do so either. So you won't give me away.

(Signed) G. P. Picton Smith, R. N.

P. S.—I might get a pretty good one for a tenner, but if it could possibly run to fifteen, I know where I could pick up an awfully swell "two-speed-gear" like what some of the masters have at our Coll. But, dear Mr. Publisher, this is only a suggestion.—T. Lion.

P. S. No. 2.—If you did see your way to the 2-Speed, I tell you what—you could make up any old thing you liked about me—such as that I killed my grand-aunt Jane, and hid the remains in my Black Sea Chest. I've got one, honor bright. Only no grand-aunt Jane. So the crime could never, never be discovered; and I would never deny it a bit, but back you up like fun. Of course it is understood between gentlemen that this last is on the two-speed-basis, as above.

T. Lion,
Now Cadet G. P. Picton Smith, R. N.
(Postal Notes Preferred.)

Letter No. 3. From Maid Margaret.

Dear Sir—(I would put "Publisher," but am not sure whether it is spelt with a B or a P—in the middle, I mean.) The boys want me to join in their protest, but you will excuse me, dear Sir. And the reason is that I sleep in the same room with the authoress. If you have any little girls, they will understand.

Yours Afftly,
Maid Margaret.

Letter No. 4 Elizabeth Fortinbras's Letter.

Dear Sir—There has been a good deal said about me in these pages, perhaps more than I should have liked if the Editor had given my real name. Of course Miss Sweetheart is far too loving to set down anything untrue or unkind. Indeed, she has made me out far better than I deserve, and has very kindly altered relationships, so that nobody's feelings will be hurt. For they will not know that it is they who are meant—I mean, not in my own family.

Now, the Editor tells me that all the people who read the book will be anxious to know what became of me—if I married, and whom! I should be very glad indeed to satisfy the curiosity of these good folk. I know what it is myself to glance over to the last page of a book and see "if it happened all right."

But you see that I am still very happy at New Erin Villa, which is no longer a "villa," but a proper shop, with a house at the back big enough for us all to live happily in. We have a good maid for the inside work, and I have added a special "icing" department, where people can have their own home-made cakes iced and fired. Besides, I give cookery lessons twice a week in the evenings to all the mill-girls, and Polly Pretend comes over to help me sometimes. Sweetheart, too, and Miss Davenant Carter come when they can, and are a great encouragement.

I don't mean to say, like most girls, that I never will get married. Perhaps I may, but it will be a very long time yet. I am quite content as things are, and, most important of all, I have yet to see the man I would freely marry darken the doors of Erin Villa! All I want to say is that Sweetheart has seen me and my doings through the sunlight of her own loving eyes—just as Hugh John and I have often looked at the long lines of cornstooks in the last rays of a September sun, and thought how much the common hills and holms and cornlands of Edam gained by the warm glow which caressed them. But how much the more I, who sign myself

The Girl Behind the Counter.

No. 5. Certificate.

This is to guarantee that the above letters are whole and exact copies of the originals, without alteration, suppression, or amendment.

The Editor.

THE END