'll show
you if I can't typewrite on the typewriter! I'll show you! You jus'
wait!"

But as far as Gizzard was concerned Sube might as well have suggested
sneaking into a lion's den. "You don't need to show _me_," he declared.
"I'll wait right here!"

The cherished page was carefully removed from the album, and in due time
Sube disappeared into the house with it. After a long absence he came
out again bearing in his hand an envelope smeared with enough finger
prints to convict the whole underworld, but neatly addressed in
typewriting to:

miss? $burton/

%main 3/8-st

"There's capital letters on the dern thing," he explained, "but I
couldn't find 'em."

"She'll never know the diff," ventured Gizzard. "It's a long time since
she went to school, and I'll bet she's forgot all about 'em."

That afternoon Biscuit Westfall delivered the note; but not until he had
received the strongest kind of assurance (including a five-cent piece)
that it had been sent by Professor Ingraham, the principal of the
school. And from an ambush of shrubbery on the opposite side of the
street Sube and Gizzard watched him ascend Mrs. Burton's front porch and
ring the bell. Mrs. Burton herself opened the door. She greeted Biscuit
cordially, as she was very fond of him. His gentle, dutiful, sweetly
pious nature appealed to her. She took the letter with effusive thanks,
and learning that an answer was expected, adjusted her spectacles and
read it.

&dear )miss "burton/:

7willyou kindley lend

your son charleis basedrum to the school
entertianment and oblige

Yours affectionately
D.D. Ingraham

She turned it over and glanced at the back. Then she read it a second
time.

"Did Professor Ingraham write this?" she asked with a puzzled
expression, tapping the missive with an index finger.

"Oh, yes, ma'am!" Biscuit assured her, thinking that he was speaking the
truth.

"Strange," she mused. "What can he possibly want of that old drum?"

"He wants it for the school entertainment," Biscuit explained. "There's
a rehearsal this afternoon, and he wanted me to take it to the
schoolhouse just as quick as I could get it there."

Overwhelmed by Biscuit's unmistakable sincerity Mrs. Burton invited him
to step inside and wait while she brought the drum down from the attic.
But he could not think of such a thing. His innate thoughtfulness would
not permit.

"I'm afraid my feet are too muddy," he said. "I'll wait rig