"I wish you could speak, Jack," said the postmaster, patting the horse's head. "Where did you leave him?"
"It's pas' six!" broke in Shag. "Reckon ye'll let me hev th' government traps?"
"Not yet, Dan. Wait till we learn the fate of Little Snap."
"Don't see wot thet hes to do with me. I hev been 'p'inted to carry thet mail, an' every minnit ye keep yit frum me makes ye liable fer damages. Reckon ye wouldn't want 'em to know at Washington 'bout this yer foolery."
Mr. Rimmon paid no heed to these words, which fact perhaps enraged the impatient Shag more than any reply would have done.
"Look hyur, Jack Rimmon! air ye goin' to let me hev thet mail—right off—ter wunst?"
Mr. Rimmon's reply fairly took away his breath.
"No, sir!"
At first the would-be mail carrier could not believe his ears.
"Wot's thet ye say, Jack Rimmon?"