"Matter! Don't talk to ME! Carelessness is the matter! Slip-sloppiness
is the matter! Here's a man that calls himself a man and goes mopin'
around pretendin' to BE a man, and what does he do?"

"I don't know. I'd tell you better, maybe, if I knew who he was."

"Who he was! I'll tell you who he was--is, I mean. He's Balaam
Hambleton, that's who he is."

"Humph! Bale Hamilton, hey? Then it's easy enough to say what he
does--nothin', most of the time. Is that letter for me?"

"Course it's for you! And it's a week old, what's more. One week ago
that letter come in the mail and the postmaster let that--that Hambleton
thing take it, 'cause he said he was goin' right by here and could leave
it just as well as not. And this very mornin' that freckle-faced boy
of his--that George Washin'ton one--what folks give such names to their
young ones for _I_ can't see!--he rung the front door bell and yanked
me right out of the dish water, and he says his ma found the letter in
Balaam's other pants when she was mendin' 'em, and would I please excuse
his forgettin' it 'cause he had so much on his mind lately. Mind! Land
of love! if he had a thistle top on his mind 'twould smash it flat.
Don't talk to me!"

"I won't," drily; "I WON'T, Zuba, I swear it. Let's see the letter."

He bent forward and took the letter from her hand. Then, adjusting his
spectacles, he examined the envelope. It was of the ordinary business
size and was stamped with the Boston postmark, and a date a week old.
Captain Dan looked at the postmark, studied the address, which was in an