"Gals! Shucks!" The stage-driver climbed back to his seat and drove away. Mr. Paulus looked after him, musingly.
"Willard Sickles," he said, "never would have nothin' to do with women. He was born drivin' mails!"
"Pun?" asked Thaddeus, delicately, with his eyes on the Four Corners. "Pun, Peter?"
"Hey?" Mr. Paulus was still thoughtful—abstracted. "Lonesome and disgusted. Born so. It's his nature."
The two at the Four Corners separated. Morgan went north, Gard towards the cemetery.
"I thought they might do some buttin'," said Mr. Paulus, as one grown used to disappointment, and went in with his mail-bags.
Sundry villagers appeared, drifting slowly to the focus of the post-office. Thaddeus took off his glasses and put them with precision into their case.
"I wonder if Pete intended a pun? Probably not. Conversation is subject to accidents. It is a pity that conversation is not—not more secure."