On the following day, chancing to look backwards at his snug house in the hollow, from the uplands where he was at work, he observed a white streamer dangling from his own gate.
“They’ve tied a towel to the gate,” he murmured to himself. “What can they be wantin’ carrier to call for?”
For by this simple expedient the carrier, journeying on the high road above, became aware of the fact that the dwellers in the lane needed his services. Farmer Bolt went on wondering all the way up that furrow and all the way down again, and presently caught sight of the carrier’s van turning down the lane. He continued to speculate while the green-hooded vehicle turned into his own yard, emerged again, and finally came crawling up the stony incline to the high road. Then Farmer Bolt, unable any longer to restrain his curiosity, brought his horses to a standstill, and leaving them to their own devices, hastened across the field to the corner which the van must pass.
“That parcel what my wife gived ye just now, Jan,” he panted, as he approached; “let’s have a look at it. I want to make sure it’s addressed right. My wold ’ooman bain’t no great hand with the pen.”
“’Twas your daughter wrote the address,” returned the carrier. “I d’ ’low it’ll be right enough.”
He produced the parcel, nevertheless, and the farmer hastily examined it. The address was certainly set forth in a clear, legible hand:—
Mr Edward Blanchard,
c/o The Black Inn,
Sturminster.
To be left till called for.
He spelt it out slowly, thrusting out his underlip the while, with a puzzled look.
“To be left till called for,” he repeated. “It do seem a queer thing that. How be the man a-goin’ to call for it when he’ve emmygrated to Ameriky.”