Mr. Owens made no reply. He went on eating his dinner, and Bob, after he had taken a few minutes in which to recover his composure (for his father’s sharp glances told him that his story was not believed), inquired:
“Have you done anything about that mail business, father?”
“I have done all I could this forenoon, and am going to work again this afternoon. Gordon has already sent in his bid, and the worst of it is, he has all the best men about here to back him up—that is, all those who consider themselves the best,”—added Mr. Owens, in a sneering tone. “But it doesn’t follow that one man is better than another because he lives in a larger house and has more money. I shall call on a few planters in the settlement, after dinner, and then I will ride over and see Brigham about those bonds.”
“You’ll get them, sure,” said Bob, confidently. “Lester said so.”
“I shall put in my bid at twenty-five dollars,” continued Mr. Owens.
“That will be a loss of five dollars a month, or sixty dollars a year,” said Bob, thoughtfully. “It is a lot of money, father.”
“But if, by losing sixty dollars a year, you could make three hundred, don’t you think it would be a good investment?”
Bob said he thought it would; but he told himself that he had just as much right to demand thirty dollars a month for carrying the mail as Dave Evans had. Sixty dollars would buy many things that would be useful to him. That ragamuffin was always in his way.
Bob, having finished his dinner, went out and loitered around until he saw his father mount his horse and ride away, and then he walked off down the lane. He wanted to get away, by himself, so that he could think over his future prospects. He wandered aimlessly about, building air-castles, until it began to grow dark, and then he turned his face toward home, where he arrived just in time to see Mr. Owens dismount at the gate.
“What luck?” asked Bob, who was now in the greatest suspense, for he knew that his fate depended upon the first words that fell from his father’s lips.