Ken and Sandy stayed where they were, hoping for further information about the mysterious new owner of the Tobacco Mart. But the boy was busy, conscientiously checking up on each package that he pushed through the window.
As the clerk handed him his change he said, “You’re slipping, Pete. Used to ship out twice this amount—and once a day instead of once a week.”
“You’re telling me!” the boy answered, with his sour grin. “You should tell my genius boss—John D. Grace. The D is for dopey.” He moved aside from the window. “Be seeing you!” He included Ken in his farewell gesture.
“Good luck!” Ken called after him.
“Lift your parcels up here, please,” the clerk said impatiently.
Ken stared at him blankly. “Oh—eh—I just wanted some stamps, please. Two threes and—”
“Buddy,” the clerk said, “can’t you read? That sign in front of you says parcel post. If you want stamps—”
“Oh, sorry. Thanks.” Ken departed hastily, with Sandy close behind him.
Out on the sidewalk again they headed instinctively back toward the Tobacco Mart. Pete, the delivery boy, was only half a block ahead of them, whistling dismally as he pushed his truck along the uneven sidewalk.
“Very interesting,” Sandy murmured.