She ran to the low hedge that was between the Martin side yard and the street, and Ted followed.
“Hello, Curlytops!” was the postman’s greeting. “Here’s the mail for you. Don’t lose it,” and he handed Jan two letters. “Any birds been nesting in your hair to-day?” he asked Ted, putting his hand over the hedge and ruffling up the boy’s curls.
“Nope!” answered Ted.
“He lost the comb in it and mother couldn’t find it,” Jan put in.
“I should think not!” agreed the postman, laughing. “If I had such a head of hair as you two youngsters have, I’d be afraid of losing my whistle in the curls. Then I’d have to stop being a postman until I found it. But run along with the letters, Jan. Your mother may be waiting for them.”
He gave a blast on his whistle, and crossed the street, while Jan hurried into the house and Ted waved to Tom Taylor, calling:
“Come on in and we’ll play Indians.”
“All right,” agreed Tom.
He wiggled his way through a hole in the hedge, not waiting to go around to the gate, and he and Ted started for a shady spot under the trees, where Jan soon joined them.
“Come on down to the back lot,” urged Ted. “We’ll get a blanket and make a tent like the Indians. Jan can be a squaw if she wants to.”