"Where? How should I know where? Here, read this."
He pushed the paper into my hand. It was a letter.
"Go on," said Bobbie. "Read it."
So I did. It certainly was quite a letter. There was not much of it,
but it was all to the point. This is what it said:
"MY DEAR BOBBIE,--I am going away. When you care enough about me
to remember to wish me many happy returns on my birthday, I will
come back. My address will be Box 341, _London Morning News_."
I read it twice, then I said, "Well, why don't you?"
"Why don't I what?"
"Why don't you wish her many happy returns? It doesn't seem much to
ask."
"But she says on her birthday."
"Well, when is her birthday?"
"Can't you understand?" said Bobbie. "I've forgotten."
"Forgotten!" I said.
"Yes," said Bobbie. "Forgotten."
"How do you mean, forgotten?" I said. "Forgotten whether it's the
twentieth or the twenty-first, or what? How near do you get to it?"
"I know it came somewhere between the first of January and the
thirty-first of December. That's how near I get to it."
"Think."
"Think? What's the use of saying 'Think'? Think I haven't thought? I've
been knocking sparks out of my brain ever since I opened that letter."
"And you can't remember?"
"No."
I rang the bell and ordered restoratives.
"Well, Bobbie," I said, "it's a pretty hard case to spring on an
untrained amateur like me.
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