Johan shook his head as if unable to grasp what Keith meant.

"My popsey works in the office down there," he said, "and we live beside
it, and at night I go with popsey when he carries all the mail to the
postoffice."

"Why do you call him popsey," inquired Keith, fascinated by the new word
and wondering if he would dare use it to his own father.

"Because that's what he is," Johan declared.

A few minutes later they were playing together as if they had known each
other for ever. They had just discovered an unusually large and tempting
pin in a crack at the bottom of the gutter, when Keith heard his mother
calling from the window above:

"What are you doing, Keith?"

"Oh, just playing," he replied without looking up, forgetful of
everything but the pin that would not come out of the crack.

"Who is that with you?"

"That is Johan," Keith shouted back triumphantly, "and his papa is a
_vaktmästare_, too."

"Come right up and let me speak to you," was the insistant rejoinder
from above.

"Oh, please, mamma," the boy pleaded, his voice breaking a little,