“Say, Jeff,” he called, as Creede came in from the pasture, “have you got any stamps?”
“Any which?” inquired Creede suspiciously.
“Any postage stamps––to put on letters.”
“Huh!” exclaimed Creede. “You must think I’ve got a girl––or important business in the States. No, I’ll tell you. The only stamp I’ve got is in a glass frame, hung up on the wall––picture of George Washington, you know. Haven’t you never seen it? W’y, it’s right there in the parler––jest above the pianney––and a jim-dandy piece of steel engraving she is, too.” He grinned broadly as he concluded this running fire of jest, but his partner remained serious to the end.
“Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll go down to Moroni in the morning, then.”
“What ye goin’ down there for?” demanded Creede incredulously.
“Why, to buy a stamp, of course,” replied Hardy, “it’s only forty miles, isn’t it?” And early in the morning, true to his word, he saddled up Chapuli and struck out down the river.
From the doorway Creede watched him curiously, his lips parted in a dubious smile.
“There’s something funny goin’ on here, ladies,” he observed sagely, “something funny––and I’m dogged if I savvy what it is.” He stooped and scooped up Tommy in one giant paw. “Well, Tom, Old Socks,” he said, holding him up where he could sniff delicately at the rafters, “you’ve got a pretty good nose, how about it, now––can you smell a rat?” But even Tommy could not explain why a man should ride forty miles in order to buy a stamp.