Hurrying out without waiting to reply, he soon overtook his brothers, and after examining the envelope, stuffed it in his hip pocket. It likely would have been there yet had not Dick thought it wise to settle the responsibility of delivering the family mail in the future.
“Say, papa,” he began at the supper table that evening, “it’s Tom’s place to stop at the post-office, isn’t it?”
Tom frowned at Harry, thinking that he had prompted Dick to put the question. Harry frowned back, and even gave his brother a pinch under cover of the table.
“Boys, boys!” reproved Mr. Treat, “what’s the trouble now?”
“Nothin’,” answered Tom. “Only I asked Harry to get the letter Mr. Harris had for you, and he wouldn’t, and Dick was stubborn, too.”
“Now, Tom, you know that is your duty. I want my eldest son to bring the mail. The younger boys might lose it. Even you, big as you are, seem likely to prove careless, for you have not delivered any letter to me as yet.”
“Oh, father, I forgot!” and a hot flush of shame at his negligence mounted Tom’s cheeks, as he hastily produced the missive.
“Of all things! Mother, listen to this,” for as Mr. Treat tore open the envelope out had dropped a pink slip of paper beside a note.
“Dear Sir:—
I’m a comparatively poor man, but not so poor in gratitude that I cannot voice my thanks for the rescue of my baby son at the Fair yesterday. That the rescuer happened to be a goat is no reason why the act should go unrewarded, and the enclosed check is the effort I make to express my appreciation of the brave act. I send it in the hope that it may provide some luxury for those who have trained him so well.