I reckon he don't travel
round to find out who writes all the letters that go through the Post
Office."
The Postmaster had seemingly miscalculated the old man's infirm temper,
and the daughter's skillful use of it. He was unprepared for Flip's
boldness and audacity, and when he saw that both barrels of the
accusation had taken effect on the charcoal-burner, who was rising with
epileptic rage, he fairly turned and fled. The old man would have
followed him with objurgation beyond the door, but for the restraining
hand of Flip.
Baffled and beaten, nevertheless Fate was not wholly unkind to the
retreating suitor. Near the Gin and Ginger Woods he picked up a letter
which had fallen from Flip's packet. He recognized the writing, and did
not scruple to read it. It was not a love epistle,--at least, not such
a one as he would have written,--it did not give the address nor the
name of the correspondent; but he read the following with greedy
eyes:--
"Perhaps it's just as well that you don't rig yourself out for the
benefit of those dead-beats at the Crossing, or any tramp that might
hang round the ranch.
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