Then the office-boy had to tell the whole story all over again.
The letters had come up from the office, and were laid on the desk ready for the editor of Harper's Young People, when the office-boy came into the room. All the letters had been cut open, and lay in a heap on the desk, and the boy was just going to take one up, when he heard a thin, rustling, papery voice speak right out, and say, "Can't you let a fellow out?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy, opening the door.
There was no one there. Besides all that, the doors were all unlocked, and any one who wished to do so could get out. The office-boy thought it was very queer, and he went back to the desk and sat down.
"Oh, come now, I say! Do let a fellow out."
The office-boy jumped right out of the chair, and said, "Yes, sir."
Well! Of course you won't believe it. There was nobody there. The office-boy sat down again, and said, in a solemn manner, "I swan!"
"Oh!" cried a very thin crickling voice, "I never expected to come to such a place to hear such dreadful words."
The office-boy blushed deeply, and then began to take the letters out of their envelopes and lay them open on the table ready for the editor. Each time he did so some one said, "Thank you; you're very kind; much obliged," in the politest manner possible.
"Guess these letters come from that beautiful country where all the children say, 'Yes, marm,' and 'Thank you,' and 'If you please.'"