"I'm sorry I wasn't near to try and do something for the poor fellow,"
said the doctor, later on, when his friends were gathered round a
blazing wood-fire in his own snug house. "But I doubt if I could have
helped him. I guess he was born with the hankering for whiskey, and when
that is in the mongrel blood of a half-breed it is pretty sure to wreck
him some time. We must leave him to God, boys, and to changes larger
than we know."
"I've a letter for you, Neal," added the host presently in a lighter
tone. "It was directed to my care. It is from Philadelphia, from Royal
Sinclair, I think."
Neal slit the envelope which was handed to him, and read the few lines
it contained aloud, with a longing burst of laughter.
Royal was as short with his pen as he was dash-away with his tongue. The
letter was a brief but pressing invitation to Cyrus and the Farrars to
visit their camping acquaintances of the Maine wilds at the Sinclairs'
home in Philadelphia before the English boys recrossed the Atlantic.
"Come you must!" wrote Roy. "We've promised to give a big spread, and
invite all the crowd we train with to meet you.
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