The boys had marched off to school, each swinging his lunch basket, and each wishing that lessons were half as interesting as the Fair.
That evening the postmaster was sitting on the same cracker barrel he had occupied two days before, and, beaming with good nature, hailed the Treat trio as they were passing on their way home from school.
“A letter in here for your father!” he called genially.
“Where from?” asked Tom shortly, with but a show of slight interest.
“Springfield, I guess. The postmark is blurred, and so I can’t be real sure.”
“You go after it, Harry,” commanded the eldest of the three.
“Won’t either!”
“Then you go, Dick,” turning to the little fellow when he found Harry incorrigible.
“Guess not!” sturdily, hands in trouser pockets, and feet kicking the deep dust of the roadway. “Papa says you’re to bring the mail, so get it yourself,” and on he marched.
“Not so anxious now your automobile has come,” said the postmaster as Tom reluctantly entered.