To return to the castaways, it required nearly every minute of the two hours that Dave spent in slumber to prepare those lists and various letters, for they all needed a great deal of revising.
Henrietta's was the last note to be finished, because that ingenious maid added a miraculous number of postscripts. All the other missives were tied together with a stout string; when Henrietta, who had seized hers at the last moment to add a request for marshmallows, discovered that Dave, with the large packet inside his shirt, was already making for the path out of the clearing.
Henrietta flew after him with the note, which was addressed very clearly to Mrs. Slater. Dave laughed, thrust the note lightly into the pocket of his shirt, and vanished—Dave had a curious way of melting, with surprising suddenness, from one's sight.
"He'll lose that," declared Henrietta, returning to the group sheltered under a big pine tree—the June sun was bright in the clearing. "I wish it were tied up with the others."
It was fortunate, however, that it was not; for the Indian proved an erratic postman.
It took Dave less time than Mr. Black had supposed it would to reach Lakeville—and a Lakeville friend, dwelling on the outskirts of the town. This hospitable friend considered it necessary to refresh his visitor with the contents of a large, flat bottle.
Now, Dave was very easily affected by strong drink. After he had parted from his generous host, he remembered hazily that he had something to deliver to somebody—he cherished a dim recollection of a flying, girlish figure, a bright, youthful countenance, and a letter. That was it, a letter. He groped in his trousers pockets. Nothing there. In his loose belt. Nothing there. In the pocket of his dingy shirt. Yes, there it was.
Clutching it firmly, the staggering Indian searched the sky above him with bleared but inquiring eyes.
"What ye lookin' for?" asked Pat Mulligan, the policeman.
"Pos'—pos' office," replied Dave, with a wide, friendly smile. "Let—letters s'mail."