"And, you are not hurt?" Hazel pressed close to his side and looked up lovingly at the tall boy.
"Not in the least—that is, physically. But I am seriously hurt mentally."
Cora could not but recognize how handsome Paul was. The excitement seemed to fire his whole being, and throw some subtle human phosphorus—a light from his burning brain certainly brightened in his eyes and even in his cheeks.
"Come along, girls," he said hurriedly. "Never mind the paraphernalia.
Some lonely goat might like the rags. Let's get out on the road."
His anxiety was of course for the mail. That leather bag meant more to him than the mere transference of Uncle Sam's freight—it meant his honor—his position.
Over the rough fields the girls followed him. Hazel clung to his hand like a little sister indeed, while the others were content to keep as close as the uncertain footing would allow.
Presently they reached the road, then the stage coach. The other girls, who had not run to Paul's rescue, were standing around breathless.
Paul jumped into the car—thrust his hand into the box under the floor, where he always put the government pouch.
He brought up the mailbag.