“I read in the paper that ladies was riding astride,” said the postmistress, apparently soul-hungry for companionship. “But me father won’t let me get a pattron an’ try an’ make one. Yours don’t seem to mind.”
“He won’t let me ride any other way,” said Norah, writing busily.
“Go on! Well, ain’t men different!” said the postmistress. “Never know where you have them, do you? Is those long fellers your brothers?”
Norah nodded, feeling at the moment, unequal to detailed explanation.
“Thought so. An’ you’re re’ly goin’ to try old Ben Athol! Wonder if you’ll ever get there,” the postmistress pondered. Her freckled face suddenly widened to a smile. “Look at that blackfeller, now! Well, if he ain’t a trick!”
Billy was jogging up the street on old Bung Eye, smoking vigorously. Behind him, taking the fullest advantage of a long halter, the packhorse led, very bored by Life. The township children shouted and ran, but nothing affected Billy’s serenity. He passed out of sight, and the Postmistress, oblivious of further possible wishes on the part of her customer, quitted her little office and rushed outside to gaze after him. In this pleasurable occupation she was not alone, since three parts of the township was hanging over its front fence, gazing likewise.
From the street came Jim’s whistle, for the third time—this time with something peremptory in its note.
“Coming!” Norah called. She dropped her card into the slit marked “Letters,” and ran out, receiving voluble farewells from the postmistress as she fled.
“Good-bye!” Norah called. She swung herself upon Bosun’s back, and trotted down the street with Jim. Already the others were some distance ahead.
The postmistress came in, regretfully, as the dust of their going died away.