“I’ve been asleep,” said Que; and so he had.
“My bag’s been and gone,” continued Que; and so it had.
But he was a bright boy, and all the brighter, perhaps, for having just been asleep; so he looked round, which is a very good thing to do when you get into trouble, and the very thing that half the people in the world never think to do.
“There are tracks in the grass; and there is a cart-track in the dust, and it had two horses, and these foot-tracks went back to it. Why, the lath man must have taken it;” and so he had.
Que started towards the Point as fast as he could go, and consequently, when he got there, which was just fifty minutes after the bag got there, he had no breath left to ask any questions about it. Still he panted on to the post-office.
“Who are you?” asked the postmaster.
“I’m—a—bag,” gasped Que.
“Bag of wind!” said the postmaster, emphatically.
“A—mail—bag!” said Que.
“Humph! So you’re the new mail boy—are you? Send your bag down by express, and came yourself by accommodation—didn’t you?”