_HOW THE LETTER WAS POSTED._
JACK did not miss it. After an hour or more of anxious watching, the
rolling cloud of dust appeared, but it was going from him. In an
agony of desperation, he put his hand to his head to try to think.
Yes, there was the post-cart almost out of sight, and altogether out
of hearing,—nothing but a moving speck of cloud. No one but himself,
thought Jack, would have been sure that it was the post-cart. No power
on earth could make Vickel run in a straight line. He saw it now, as
she circled round and round, he had lost his way.
His heart beat wildly, his breath was almost gone with the terrific
speed, when a crystal gleam in the glowing sand attracted Vickel. Easy
as it is for an ostrich to go without water in her native deserts,
she loves it all the same; and now of her own accord, Vickel stopped
to drink. Jack got down and drank also: the water was warm with the
growing sunshine. Then he sprang upon her shoulder once again, and she
waded through the little stream with infinite satisfaction.
When she stepped out again on the opposite bank, she shook the water
from her wings, and covered Jack with a light and glistening shower,
which both steed and rider felt infinitely refreshing.
Jack took the hood he had made out of his pocket and tied it on his
ostrich. It answered well; he could let it down over her eyes and stop
her when he liked. He gave up all thought of trying to make her run
after the post-cart. But he had watched the way it was going, and now
he started his ostrich in another direction, hoping as she circled
round, he should fall in with it further on.
Away went Vickel with renewed speed, taking a wider sweep as she felt
her capabilities expand with this unwonted exercise. The pace at which
they were going was frightful. Mr. Wilton and his powerful grays crept
like snails in comparison.
Jack was dizzy and sick, when suddenly he found himself, not behind the
post-cart, but before it. Vickel was turning from the storm of dust it
raised, when Jack let the hood drop over her eyes. She stopped at once,
and Jack hung round her neck, more dead than alive. But he knew the
critical moment had come; yet it was a mercy he had a breathing-space,
or he might have fainted quite away. Vic was frightened at finding
herself in the dark, so she lay down and ran her head in the sand,
trying to rub her hood off. Jack stretched himself on the ground beside
her and slowly rallied.
Great was the postman's astonishment when he perceived the little
fellow, covered with dust and white with fatigue, sitting by the
wayside waiting.
Jack got up as the tramp of the horses drew nearer and nearer. He waved
his hat in the air and held aloft his precious letter. The postman drew
up. Jack put the letter and the sixpence into his hand; but his voice
was weak and faint, as he asked nervously, "Please, sir, is that enough
for the postage?"
[Illustration: HER MAJESTY'S MAIL.]
The postman took the letter from him and read the familiar address.
Every time he had crossed that sandy waste for years, he had been
stopped to take a letter for Mr. Treby, Nottingham, England. He looked
Jack all over, as he said kindly, "You have had a long and dusty walk
to overtake me here. It has been too much for you, my little man. Your
letter shall go all right. Where is your father?"
"He is gone on a long journey, sir," answered Jack dolefully.
"Then keep your sixpence; I will give you the stamp. But do not try to
walk back in the heat, or you will drop by the way. Lie down under one
of the bushes and rest. Have you anything with you to eat?"