Two days had elapsed since a letter was despatched to Mr. A. B., informing him that Mr. George Smith was willing to accept his proffered situation, and no reply had been received.
George declared that Bess’s nose was beginning to get quite flat at the tip from being constantly pressed against the window-glass while she watched for the postman.
He was a most disagreeable postman. He went next door and opposite, and this side and that; he rattat-tatted at every door but Mr. Duck’s.
George got to know the time for the deliveries after the first day, and he would go down and wait at the front-door and watch the postman as he came down the street. When he got close up George felt quite hot; but as time after time he passed by without the faintest indication of having anything for the Ducks’ letter-box, a feeling of terrible disappointment crept over the young man’s heart.
He had made so sure he should have an answer, and so had Bess.
On the morning of the third day, when they were sitting at breakfast, lo and behold the long-expected rat-tat came, and there was a click in the letter-box, and the postman’s boots were heard descending the steps—not by themselves, of course, the postman was in them. Bess and George jumped up, nearly knocking the table over, and Bess tore downstairs.
Yes, there was a letter in the box. Nervously Bess put her hand in and drew it out, and then, half-hopefully, half-fearfully, glanced at the direction.
She could have sat down in the hall and cried with disappointment.
It was only a deep black-bordered letter for ‘The Occupier.’ Of course, that was for the Ducks. While she was looking at it Miss Duck came out, and Bess handed it to her.
‘Lor’, a black border!’ exclaimed Georgina. ‘I wonder who’s dead.’