"Then why don't she say who sent 'em, and what they are like," said the
Postmaster, "if there's nothing in it?"

"Yes," echoed Dad. "Flip, why don't you?"

Without answering the direct question, Flip turned upon her father.

"Maybe you forget how you used to row and tear round here because
tramps and such like came to the ranch for suthin', and I gave it to
'em? Maybe you'll quit tearin' round and letting yourself be made a
fool of now by that man, just because one of those tramps gets up and
sends us some presents back in turn?"

"'Twasn't me, Flip," said the old man, deprecatingly, but glaring at
the astonished Postmaster. "'Twasn't my doin'. I allus said if you cast
your bread on the waters it would come back to you by return mail. The
fact is, the Gov'ment is getting too high-handed! Some o' these bloated
officials had better climb down before next leckshen."

"Maybe," continued Flip to her father, without looking at her
discomfited visitor, "ye'd better find out whether one of those
officials comes up to this yer ranch to steal away a gal about my own
size, or to get points about diamond-making. 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