“Hetty Morfee.”
Routt looked at Wint and laughed softly. “Oh—she’s working for you?”
“Yes.”
“Nice kid, isn’t she?”
“Yes. And—as I said—she’ll help you if mother won’t.”
Routt nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll go out this morning. Where’ll I send the trunk? Weaver House?”
“I’ll send for it. You just pack it.”
Routt touched Wint’s arm. “I’ll do it,” he said again. “But Wint,—for the love of Mike, don’t make a fool of yourself! Thing for you to do is to take hold, run the town right, and make a name for yourself. It’s a great chance, Wint. Make everybody see what you’ve got in you. And it’ll be the making of you, Wint.”
The distribution of the morning’s mail to the boxes was ended just then, and the windows opened. Routt broke off and went to get his mail, and Wint, still resentful at Routt’s insistence on the moral advantages of his situation, went to the window. Dave Howells, one of the postal clerks, was there; and before Wint could speak, he had offered his congratulations. These continual good wishes were beginning to irk Wint. He nodded impatiently. “Dave,” he said, “I want you to hold my mail hereafter. Don’t send it to the house.”
“Oh, we always put it in your father’s box,” Howells told him.