Chapter Two

Jennifer and her mother stepped into the house. The hall was a bit of a mess. Numerous pairs of mismatched shoes were all mixed up on the floor underneath a large wooden bench. A sordid assortment of unmatched mittens were scattered across the seat along with a baseball mitt and a couple of toques. A snorkel and a pair of snowshoes were hang ing on hooks nearby. A duck had made its nest in the umbrella stand and it glared out at the intruders suspiciously. The umbrellas were piled on a small whatnot table. The whatnots were not in evidence.

"You don't seem to be expecting us, " said Mrs. Jones.

"Should I be?" asked Moffat. 'When you get to be my age you learn not to expect anything anymore."

'We've come all the way from Vancouver," explained Jennifer. "On the train!"

"Beats walking," said Moffat. "Here on vacation?"

"No," said Jennifer. "We've come to live with you."

"You've what?" asked Moffat and he stared at her in open-mouthed disbelief.

"Didn't Walter explain in his letter," said Mrs. Jones.

'Walter? Don't know a Walter! Wait a minute, yes I do," said Moffat. "Scarborough in '72. Or was it Saskatoon? Oh well, no matter, I remember old Walter all right. Walter was a St. Bernard, still is probably."

"The Walter we mean is an uncle," said Jennifer.

"He's my husband's older brother," explained Mrs. Jones. "I don't think you know him personally."

"If he's anything like the Walter I know it's probably just as well," agreed Moffat. "Fattest dog that ever was. Couldn't chase a tricycle."

Jennifer smiled. Uncle Walter did look a little like a St. Bernard. His cheeks hung down like dewlaps sometimes, especially when he took naps. She wondered how her great- grandfather could possibly have guessed.

"But I'm sure Walter sent you a letter," said Mrs. Jones. "He assured us you knew..."

"And I assure you," declared Moffat. "I've never laid eyes on the man or one of his letters in my life!"

Moffat frowned and Mrs. Jones looked distressed. Jennifer looked down at the floor. She noticed a large pile of letters that lay unopened just under the mail slot. She recognized one of them.

"Look!" she cried. "'It's Uncle Walter's letter!" She picked it up and handed it to her mother. "That's from Walter all right," agreed Mrs. Jones. Moffat eyed the letter suspiciously.

"I suppose I better read this," he said.