THE TRIALS OF AN ASSISTANT POSTMASTER
By all laws of mercy the post-master in a small town should be old and
mentally near-sighted. Jimmy Reed was young and curious. He had even
yielded to temptation once in removing a stamp on a letter from
Annette Fenton to a strange suitor. Not that he wanted to delay the
letter. He only wanted to know if she put tender messages under the
stamp when she wrote to other people.
During the two years Sandy remained at the university, Jimmy handed
his letters out of the post-office window to the judge once a week,
following them half-way with his body to pick up the verbal crumbs of
interest the judge might let fall while perusing them. The supremacy
which Sandy had established in the base-ball days had lent him a
permanent halo in the eyes of the younger boys of Clayton. "Letter
from Sandy this morning," Jimmy would announce, adding somewhat
anxiously, "Ain't he on the team yet?"
The judge was obliging and easy-going, and he frequently gratified
Jimmy's curiosity.
"No; he's studying pretty hard these days. He says he is through with
athletics."
"Does he like it up there?"
"Oh, yes, yes; I guess he likes it well enough," the judge would
answer tentatively; "but I am afraid he's working too hard."
"Looks like a pity to spoil such a good pitcher," said Jimmy,
thoughtfully. "I never saw him lose but one game, and that nearly
killed him."
"Disappointment goes hard with him," said the judge, and he sighed.
Jimmy's chronic interest developed into acute curiosity the second
winter--about the time the Nelsons returned to Clayton after a long
absence.
On Thanksgiving morning he found two letters bearing his hero's
handwriting. One was to Judge Hollis and one to Miss Ruth Nelson. The
next week there were also two, both of which went to Miss Nelson.
After that it became a regular occurrence.
Jimmy recognized two letters a week from one person to one person as a
danger-signal. His curiosity promptly rose to fever-heat. He even went
so far as to weigh the letters, and roughly to calculate the number of
pages in each. Once or twice he felt something hard inside, and upon
submitting the envelop to his nose, he distinguished the faint
fragrance of pressed flowers. It was perhaps a blessing in disguise
that the duty of sorting the outgoing mail did not fall to his lot.
One added bit of information would have resulted in spontaneous
combustion.
By and by letters came daily, their weight increasing until they
culminated, about Christmas-time, in a special-delivery letter which
bristled under the importance of its extra stamp.
The same morning the telegraph operator stopped in to ask if the
Nelsons had been in for their mail. "I have a message for Miss Nelson,
but I thought they started for California this morning."
"It's to-morrow morning they go," said Jimmy. "I'll send the message
out. I've got a special letter for her, and they can both go out by
the same boy."
When the operator had gone, Jimmy promptly unfolded the yellow slip,
which was innocent of envelop.
Do not read special-delivery letter. Will explain.
S.K.
For some time he sat with the letter in one hand and the message in
the other. Why had Sandy written that huge letter if he did not want
her to read it? Why didn't he want her to read it? Questions buzzed
about him like bees.
Large ears are said to be indicative of an inquisitive nature. Jimmy's
stood out like the handles on a loving-cup. With all this explosive
material bottled up in him, he felt like a torpedo-boat deprived of
action.
After a while he got up and went into the drug-store next door. When
he came back he made sure he was alone in the office. Then he propped
up the lid of his desk with the top of his head, in a manner acquired
at school, and hiding behind this improvised screen, he carefully took
from his pocket a small bottle of gasolene. Pouring a little on his
handkerchief, he applied it to the envelop of the special-delivery
letter.
As if by magic, the words within showed through; and by frequent
applications of the liquid the engrossed Jimmy deciphered the
following:
--like the moan of the sea in my heart, and it will not be still.
Heart, body, and soul will call to you, Ruth, so long as the
breath is in my body. I have not the courage to be your friend.
I swear, with all the strength I have left, never to see you nor
write you again. God bless you, my--
A noise at the window brought Jimmy to the surface. It was Annette
Fenton, and she seemed nervous and excited.
"Mercy, Jimmy! What's the m-matter? You looked like you were caught
eating doughnuts in study hour. What a funny smell! Say, Jimmy; don't
you want to do something for me?"
Jimmy had spent his entire youth in urging her to accept everything
that was his, and he hailed this as a good omen.
"I have a l-letter here for dad," she went on, fidgeting about
uneasily and watching the door. "I don't want him to g-get it until
after the last train goes to-night. Will you see that he d-doesn't get
it before nine o'clock?"
Jimmy took the letter and looked blankly from it to Annette.
"Why, it's from you!"
"What if it is, you b-booby?" she cried sharply; then she changed her
tactics and looked up appealingly through the little square window.
"Oh, Jimmy, do help me out! That's a d-dear! I'm in no end of a
scrape. You'll do as I ask, now w-w-won't you?"
Jimmy surrendered on the spot.
"Now," said Annette, greatly relieved, "find out what time the d-down
train starts, and if it's on time."
"It ought to start at three," reported Jimmy after consulting the
telegraph operator. "It's an hour late on account of the snow.
Expecting somebody?"
She shook her head.
"Going to the city yourself?"
"Of course not. Whatever made you think that?" she cried with
unnecessary vehemence. Then, changing the subject abruptly, she added:
"G-guess who has come home?"
"Who?" cried Jimmy, with palpitating ears.
"Sandy Kilday. You never saw anybody look so g-grand. He's gotten to
be a regular swell, and he walks like this."
Annette held her umbrella horizontally, squared her shoulders, and
swung bravely across the room.
"Sandy Kilday?" gasped Jimmy, with a clutch at the letter in his
pocket. "Where's he at?"
"He's trying to get up from the d-depot. He has been an hour coming
two squares. Everybody has stopped him, from Mr. Moseley on down to
the b-blacksmith's twins."
"Is he coming this way?" asked Jimmy, wild-eyed and anxious.
Annette stepped to the window.
"Yes; they are crossing the street now." She opened the sash and,
snatching a handful of snow, rolled it into a ball, which she sailed
out of the window. It was promptly answered by one from below, which
whirled past her and shattered itself against the wall.
"Dare, dare, double dare!" she called as she flung handfuls of loose
snow from the window-ledge. A quick volley of balls followed, then
the door burst open. Sandy and Ruth Nelson stood laughing on the
threshold.
"Hello, partner!" sang out Sandy to Jimmy. "Still at the old work, I
see! Do you mind how you taught me to count the change when I first
sold stamps?"
Jimmy tried to smile, but his effort was a failure. The interesting
tangle of facts and circumstances faded from his mind, and he resorted
instinctively to nature's first law. With an agitated countenance, he
sought self-preservation by waving Sandy's letter behind him in a
frantic effort to banish, if possible, the odor of his guilt.
Sandy stayed at the door with Annette, but Ruth came to the window and
asked for her mail. When she smiled at the contrite Jimmy she
scattered the few remaining ideas that lingered in his brain. With
crimson face and averted eyes, he handed her the letter, forgetting
that telegrams existed.
He saw her send a quick, puzzled glance from the letter to Sandy; he
saw her turn away from the door and tear open the envelop; then, to
his everlasting credit, he saw no more.
When he ventured forth from behind his desk the office was empty. He
made a cautious survey of the premises; then, opening a back window,
he seized a small bottle by the neck and hurled it savagely against
the brick wall opposite.