"Sit here
and rest yourself until I come back and we'll walk home together."
The leather mail-bag looked thin and flat and the leisurely postmaster
had nearly distributed its contents by the time the agent had crossed
the street and reached the office. His clerks were both off on a long
holiday; they were brothers and were glad of the chance to take their
vacations together. They had been on lower pay; there was little to
do in the counting-room--hardly anybody's time to keep or even a
letter to write.
Two or three loiterers stopped the agent to ask him the usual question
if there were any signs of starting up; an old farmer who sat in his
long wagon before the post-office asked for news too, and touched his
hat with an awkward sort of military salute.
"Come out to our place and stop a few days," he said kindly. "You look
kind of pinched up and bleached out, Mr. Agent; you can't be needed
much here."
"I wish I could come," said the agent, stopping again and looking up
at the old man with a boyish, expectant face. Nobody had happened to
think about him in just that way, and he was far from thinking about
himself. "I've got to keep an eye on the people that are left here;
you see they've had a pretty hard summer."
"Not so hard as you have!" said the old man, as the agent went along
the street. "You've never had a day of rest more than once or twice
since you were born!"
There were two letters and a pamphlet for Father Daley and a thin
handful of circulars for the company.
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