“Feller from up the line telephoned across the carry that a streak of fur, bells and brimstone went past his place, and so I should judge that Colonel Gid is on the way down,” drawled the man.
“An' he'll come across that lake in the morning,” said the postmaster, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, “scorchin' the snow and leavin' a hot hole in the air behind him.”
The door opened and Parker came in to post his letters. The crowd gazed on him with new interest and with a certain significance in their glances that caught his eyes. The postmaster noticed his mute inquiry, and remarked:
“News from the interior, Mr. Parker, is that you prob'ly won't have any ice in Spinnaker to-morrow to run your engine on.”
“Why?” demanded the young man, with some surprise. The postmaster's sober face hid his jest. Parker surveyed wonderingly the grins curling under the listeners' beards.
“Oh, Colonel Gid Ward is comin' across in the mornin' and it's reckoned he'll burn up the ice.”
A cackle of laughter came from the assemblage.
“There's plenty of room on Spinnaker for both of us, I think,” Parker replied, quietly.
“Better hitch your engine,” suggested one of the group. “She's li'ble to take to the woods and climb a tree when she hears old Gid. And you can hear him a good way off, now I can tell you.”
The postmaster knuckled his chin humorously.