“I believe you, dear,” admitted her friend.
But Dorothy could not be very enthusiastic. Her disappointment over missing Tom Moran was keen. And she was not much fun that night when the boys all came over to Tavia’s for a “sing” and a general good time. Her mind was fixed upon the watch-and-watch they were to keep upon the general delivery window of the post-office the next day.
Joe demanded the privilege of being the first “man on duty.” He was deeply interested in the Tom Moran conspiracy, as he insisted upon calling it because he admired Dorothy so, and because his boyish heart and sense of chivalry had been touched by the story of little Celia, “the findling.”
“If this chap who’s written to you, Doro,” said Joe, with decided appreciation of the situation, “is in communication with Tom Moran, maybe we can catch Celia’s brother before he gets any farther away from Dalton.”
“But he’s going farther away all the time, it seems,” sighed Dorothy. “And up there beyond Polk’s mill is a wild country.”
Young Joe went off after an early breakfast in Tavia’s kitchen, full of importance. He was to stand guard at the post-office window until ten o’clock, or until one of the other boys, or Dorothy or Tavia, relieved him.
The signal agreed upon with the mail-clerk was a newspaper dropped through the opening after the person calling for “John Smith’s” letter turned away. Joe served his time patiently, and nothing happened. Nat White lounged down, entered the post-office corridor, tweaked Joe’s ear, and sent him off about his business.
“Johnny Travers and Rogue are waiting for you to go woodchucking,” Nat told his cousin. “Off with you!”
Dorothy took her own luncheon early, and drifted into the post-office about one o’clock. Tavia was to join her later.
“Never did think you’d come,” groaned Nat. “I’m starved to death.”