The Secret Letter

      Chris and Ken were twins. They had blue eyes, freckles, and bright red hair. Chris liked her hair, especially when friends told her how pretty it was. Her brother felt differently because boys often called him “Red.” This made him furious, and he would explain loftily that his name was Kenneth—Ken for short.

      Chris never bothered to tell anyone that her real name was Christine. She enjoyed being called Chris.

      This Friday morning she and her brother were cleaning the house. A warm summer breeze came in through the living-room windows. Chris was on her knees dusting the legs of the coffee table. Ken was running the vacuum cleaner over the rug.

      “We’re wasting our time,” Ken shouted above the noise of the vacuum cleaner. “We should be packing and not cleaning a house that will be closed for two weeks. Dad won’t like it if our camping things aren’t in the car when he comes home tonight. He said we’re leaving early tomorrow morning for the Pacific Coast.”

      “Mother says the house should not be left dirty when we start out on Dad’s vacation,” Chris called back.

      Ken scowled and grumbled to himself. After he had finished cleaning the rug, he took the plug out of the electric outlet and headed for his room down the hall, pulling the vacuum after him. He gave his rug a complete going over, but avoided cleaning under his bed, for he felt no one ever looked there. Besides, he had a number of snakeskins under the bed. In the spring Ken had combed the neighboring fields for the cast-off skins. His aim was to collect fifty of them, and he had found twenty, but his sister had a horror of snakes, so he kept the skins in hiding.

      Ken turned off the vacuum and was about to count his snakeskins for the nth time when a familiar squeaking brake made him rush to the front screen door. The postman was leaning out of his truck, stuffing all sorts of things into their mailbox.

      “Yippee! The mailman is here!” Ken shouted, dashing out of the house.

      Chris followed, a second behind her brother. For a week she and Ken had been looking for a letter from Marty Taylor. He lived down their street, on the outskirts of Salt Lake City, and was eleven years old—the same age as Chris and Ken. Marty had gone on a camping trip with his parents to dinosaur country in Utah, and had promised to write to his friends.

      The three children had read books on dinosaurs, and their one desire was to go dinosaur hunting. They knew that dinosaurs lived millions of years ago, and that they were strange-looking reptiles. They also knew that dinosaur bones had been found in rocks, and that they had become fossilized, that is, turned to stone.

      Now that Marty was camping in dinosaur country, he was the envy of Chris and Ken, and they were waiting anxiously to hear from him. So this morning the twins asked the mailman three times if there was a letter from Marty. Before he could answer; Ken took it for granted that there was not.

      “Shucks,” he said. “I guess Marty isn’t having any luck at dinosaur hunting.”

      “There is a letter for us,” squealed Chris, catching the mailman’s mischievous expression.

      “You win,” he answered. “I put it in the box first—just to keep you in suspense.”

      Eager hands reached into the box and pulled out a small package, bills, a sample cake of soap, a magazine, and last, the important letter with Marty’s name on the back of the envelope. It was addressed to Ken Rockhill.

      Chris pursed her lips in disappointment. “I wish Marty had put my name on the envelope too. Hurry. Open it, Ken,” she added, jumping up and down with excitement.

      Ken took the envelope and began tearing the flap in a zigzag fashion.

      Chris was sure he was tearing the letter into pieces. “Let me do it,” she begged.

      Ken reluctantly handed her the envelope. In a jiffy Chris pulled out the letter. It was a blank piece of white paper.

      The mailman roared with laughter, his plump sides shaking like jelly. “Your friend sure is playing a trick on you.”

      “Oh, no, he isn’t,” replied Chris seriously. “Marty has written a secret letter on this piece of paper. He only does that when he has something very important to tell us.”

      Leaving the mailman staring after them in wonderment, the twins raced back to the house. The screen door banged behind them. They gulped at their mother’s disapproving look.

      “I’m sorry I slammed the door,” muttered Chris.

      “Me too,” echoed Ken, rushing over to a lamp in the living room.

      “Where is the mail?” asked Mrs. Rockhill.

      “Ken, we left it by the mailbox,” wailed Chris. ‘I’ll get it. Don’t do anything until I come back.”

      “I won’t,” he replied. Ken kept turning over the blank piece of paper and tapping his foot impatiently.

      “What’s the matter with you, Ken?” asked his mother. “You’re acting like a fly batting against a windowpane. And what’s that piece of paper in your hand?”

      Fortunately Ken did not have to answer. Chris came in with the rest of the mail, and Mrs. Rockhill was so glad to see the package that she began removing the wrappings right away. Mrs. Rockhill was a birdwatcher and had ordered a book on the subject.

      Ken took off the lamp shade and turned on the light. Holding the blank piece of paper over the electric bulb, he and Chris watched the writing come into view. Then they started reading Marty’s secret letter.

      Dear Ken and Chris:

      My parents will phone Friday night and try and get your dad to change his mind and come here for his vacation. You do your part before the phone rings.

      I went dinosaur hunting with a swell person called Winkie. A friend left him a map that shows where there is a dinosaur graveyard, but Winkie can’t find it even with the map. Since his friend is dead, Winkie says more eyes would help in searching for the graveyard. So here’s hoping you can come. Be sure and bring your dinosaur-hunting equipment along.

      Your friend,

      Marty

      P. S. There are plenty of spooky sounds here at night. Big animals must be prowling around.

      “Golly,” breathed Chris. “What a letter!” She read it a second time.

      Ken read it a third time, but all he kept saying was “Wow,” until Mrs. Rockhill became curious. “Why are you holding that piece of paper over a lighted electric bulb?” she asked him.

      “So we can read a secret message, Mom,” explained Ken.

      “A secret message on a blank piece of paper?” Mrs. Rockhill was interested.

      “Yes,” answered Chris. “You see, Marty used lemon juice instead of ink when he wrote this letter. The only way you can read it is over a lighted electric bulb. That’s what makes it a secret letter.”

      Mrs.