“The lath man’s got it; where is he?” Que had recovered his breath a little by this time.
“I don’t know anything about the lath man,” growled the postmaster.
But when Que began to cry, which he did at once, the postmaster couldn’t stand that, for he had no children of his own, and his feelings, consequently, weren’t hardened; so he dragged the bag from a corner, and threw it on Que’s back.
“There, take your bag, and go home, and don’t be two hours late the first day, next time.” He didn’t stop to think that there cannot be two first days to the same thing. Que didn’t stop to think of it, either, but started homewards as fast as his bow-legs would let him. I think he approximated more nearly to running, that day, than he ever had done in his life before.
Que’s nine brothers treated him with great respect, when he got home. The family had been to tea, but each one had saved some part of his supper for Que; so, though he had an indigestible mixture, there was plenty of it,—while it lasted.
“Did you have a good time, Que?”
“Was it fun?”
“Did you get anything for it?”
“Did you get tired?”
“Going to keep it up?”