But amanuensis?
The thing was unknown to him; no one on the farm could tell him what it was.

But never mind; his heart was in it.
All this correspondence had produced one reply, the letter on which Tommy's hand still rested.

It was a brief note, signed "O.P.

Pym," and engaging Mr.Sandys on his own recommendation, "if he really felt quite certain that his heart (treasure included) was in the work." So far good, Tommy had thought when he received this answer, but there was nothing in it to indicate the nature of the work, nothing to show whether O.P.Pym was "Scholastic," or "123," or "Rex," or any other advertiser in particular.

Stop, there was a postscript: "I need not go into details about your duties, as you assure me you are so well acquainted with them, but before you join me please send (in writing) a full statement of what you think they are." There were delicate reasons why Mr.Sandys could not do that, but oh, he was anxious to be done with farm labour, so he decided to pack and risk it.