"I might write a letter and ask Jim Bailey, or Andy. They would know."
"I'll get you a pen and paper."
Pete flushed. "Would you mind writin' it for me? I ain't no reg'lar,
professional writer. Pop Annersley learned me some--but I reckon Jim
could read your writin' better."
"Of course I'll write the letter, if you want me to. If you'll just
tell me what you wish to say I'll take it down on this pad and copy it
in my room."
"Can't you write it here? Mebby we might want to change somethin'."
"Well, if you'll eat your dinner--" And Doris went for pen and paper.
When she returned she found that Pete had stacked the dishes in a
perilous pyramid on the floor, that the bed-tray might serve as a table
on which to write.
He watched her curiously as she unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen
and dated the letter.
"Jim Bailey, Concho--that's over in Arizona," he said, then he
hesitated. "I reckon I got to tell you the whole thing first and mebby
you kin put it down after I git through." Doris saw him eying the pen
intently. "You didn't fetch the ink," he said suddenly.
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