“We have all day to-morrow, and the first mail on Wednesday,” he said at length, as the trio turned gloomily homeward.
A figure passed them on the other side of the lane, hurrying toward the office.
“Here are a couple of papers for you, Varrell,” called Phil. But Varrell was already past, unresponsive to the hail.
“Throw them at him!” growled Dickinson. “He never hears anything when his back is turned.”
Phil hit the mark, and Varrell stooped for the parcels.
“Not a letter, Wrenn, not a blamed letter for any of us; just these papers for you. I felt like throwing them into the river!”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” replied Varrell, studying the postmark. “I’ll take half a loaf any time, even if you fellows get no bread. Old newspapers are sometimes valuable.”
Tuesday was not a day of profitable study for Melvin. He went to his recitations, but in some he got excused, and in others he blundered most shabbily. His whole attention was given to waiting on the mails. In the morning nothing, in the afternoon nothing, at night a single be-smooched, bescrawled envelope, bearing the postmark “Ralston, Indiana”!
“The jewel at last,” grinned Varrell, as he read the address over Melvin’s shoulder. “Open the case!”
“It isn’t a joking matter,” replied Dick, seriously. “A good deal hangs on this letter.”