Teeters hesitated; then, for the first time in his life he gave his hand to a sheepherder, and, at parting, as further evidence that the caste line was down between them, said heartily:
“Come over next Sunday and eat with me; I got six or eight cackle-berries I been savin’ fur somethin’ special.”
“Thanks. Aigs is my favor-ite fruit,” Bowers replied appreciatively.
The next day Teeters went into the post office at Prouty with more letters than he had written in all his life together. The Major was at the window perspiring under the verbal attack of a highly incensed lady.
A deeply interested listener, Teeters gathered that the postmaster’s faulty orthography was to blame for the contumely heaped upon him. In vain the Major protested his innocence of any malicious intent when, after hearing a rumor to the effect that the lady had died during an absence from Prouty, he wrote “diseased” upon a letter addressed to her, and returned it to the sender.
“I’m goin’ to sue you for libel!” was her parting shot at him.
“Like as not she’ll do it,” said the Major, despondently, and added with bitterness, “I wisht I’d died before I got this post office! Teeters,” he continued, impressively, “lemme tell you somethin’: anybody can git a post office by writin’ a postal card to Washington, but men have gone down to their graves tryin’ to git rid of ’em. The only sure way is to heave ’em into the street and jump out o’ the country between sundown and daylight.
“I’ve met fellers hidin’ in the mountains that I used to think was fugitive murderers—they had all the earmarks—but now I know better; they was runnin’ away from third-and fourth-class post offices. If ever you’re tempted, remember what I’ve told you. Anything I can do for you, Teeters?”
Teeters threw out his mail carelessly.
“Just weigh up them letters, will you?”