Some of them had been carried almost a mile below the creek, and lay with the sails idly flapping against the masts.
Frank and Ben sailed slowly along up the creek, and, when they arrived at the end of the dock, the Speedwell was "made fast," and the boys started to get their mail.
As they entered the post-office, Frank stepped up to the "pigeon-hole," and the postmaster handed him two letters; one was addressed to his mother, and the other bore his own name, written in a full, round, school-boy's hand.
"Ben," he exclaimed, as he broke the seal, "I've got a letter from Archie.

I wrote to him a month ago; I should think it was about time to get an answer." "See if he says any thing about getting a letter from me," said Ben.
"I haven't heard from him in a long time." Before proceeding further, it may not be improper to say a word about Archie Winters.

He was, as we have already said, Frank's cousin, and lived in the city of Portland.

He was just Frank's age, and, like him, was kind and generous; but he was not the boy for books.

When in school, he was an obedient and industrious pupil, and learned very readily; but, when four o'clock came, he was the first to lay aside his books.