nton?" continued
Oscar.

"Yes, Willie Davenport," replied Clinton.

"I know him--he's about your size, is n't he? and his father is a
lawyer?"

"Yes, that's him--why, I want to know if you know him?"

"O yes; he goes to our school. The boys have nicknamed him Whistler,
because he whistles so much; but he 's a real clever fellow, for all
that. My brother Ralph is quite intimate with him. It's strange that
I never knew before that he had relations down here," added Oscar.

"Do you know his sister, Ettie?" inquired Clinton.

"No, I never saw her," replied Oscar.

"Come into the house with me,--I must tell mother we 've heard from
Boston," said Clinton.

They all entered the house, and Mrs. Davenport was soon informed of the
pleasant discovery they had made, and had many questions to ask
concerning her Boston friends. Oscar seemed to become at once an old
acquaintance. The fact that he was a schoolmate of Willie gave him a
direct passport to the good graces of all the family. When Oscar
called to mind his peculiar relations towards Willie, this unlooked-for
friendship was not particularly agreeable to him; for he was not, and
never had been, on very friendly terms with Clinton's cousin. This,
however, was more than he dared say to Clinton, and so he concealed his
dislike of Willie as well as he could.

After sitting in the house a little while, Clinton invited Oscar and
Jerry into the "shop," which was a room back of the kitchen, where Mr.
Davenport kept a variety of carpenter's tools. Here, in cold and
stormy weather, Clinton's father mended his broken tools and
implements, and performed such other jobs as were required. Clinton,
too, spent many odd moments at the work-bench, and patient practice had
made him quite a neat and skilful workman. He showed the boys several
boxes, a pine table, and a cricket, made entirely by his own hands,
which would have done no discredit to a regular carpenter.

After remaining an hour or two with Clinton, Oscar and Jerry started
for home, well pleased with their visit.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE LETTER.

"Oscar, you have n't written home since you came down here, have you?"
inquired Mr. Preston one morning at the breakfast table.

"No, sir," replied Oscar.

"Well, you ought to write," added Mr. Preston; "your mother told you
to, and I suppose she has been looking for a letter every day for a
week or more. It's over a fortnight since you left home, and your