“They’re going to have a tea-party at the author-lady’s, and they’re waitin’ for me,” he announced grandly. “You know in the city we fellows have to be polite to the ladies.”
“We’re polite to the ladies too,” answered Billy sullenly. It always made him angry when Christopher made remarks which suggested that city ways were superior to those of the country.
“Oh, I dare say you are,” admitted Christopher graciously, “but it’s different in the city, you know. Say, are you going home? Let’s walk back together. Wait till I get the mail and I’ll treat to sour balls.”
In addition to his light duties as postmaster of the little village, Mr. Carpenter sold knitting worsted and sweeties kept in glass jars. Christopher, with the manner of a millionaire, pulled the last five-cent piece of his week’s “’lowance” out of his pocket, handed it over the counter and received in return ten large, semi-transparent yellow sugar balls, striped in red, and done up in a paper bag.
“Here’s another of those pesky special delivery letters for the author-lady at Mr. Parsons’, Bill,” said Mr. Carpenter as he handed out a thick budget; “you’d better take it along with the others. Now run along, both of you, for I’m busy.”
“The author-lady must be awful rich, by the way she spends money on postage stamps,” observed Billy, as the boys strolled along the village street, each with one of the big red and yellow balls of sweet stuff tucked comfortably in his cheek. “She buys dad out sometimes. And she gets stacks and stacks of letters. I wonder what they’re all about?”
He surveyed the bundle he carried with a good deal of curiosity.
“Oh, people who write books always get lots of letters; from magazine editors, asking for stories and all that sort of thing,” replied Christopher airily. “And they pay big prices for stories, so of course Mrs. Hartwell-Jones is rich. Say, Letty was telling us a story the other day—it was an awfully hot day and there wasn’t anything else to do so I lay on the grass and couldn’t help hearing what the girls were talking about—well, Letty told this story that she had read once years before at school and what do you suppose? Mrs. Hartwell-Jones had written it. She hollered down to us about it out of her bedroom window when Letty’d got through. Funny, wasn’t it? And she said she’d write another story some time, just for the girls. They were immensely tickled.”
“You have pretty good times, don’t you?” said Billy enviously. “I guess you won’t care to play with us boys much.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” exclaimed Christopher hastily. “I’ve got a fine scheme that I wanted to talk to you about to-day. Let’s you and Perk and me go off on a lark some time together. We’ll go into the woods. Grandmother’ll give us a lunch and we’ll build a fire to cook potatoes. Maybe we can catch some fish to fry.”