"Give me my mail, please."

Farrington started, and turning, beheld a little lad standing by his side.

"Mail! whose mail?" he demanded, glad of an excuse to give vent to his
anger. "What's yer name? I don't know anything about _my_ mail."

"I want Parson John's mail," persisted the boy. Don't you know him?"

"Know 'im! Well, I guess! I know 'im too d--n well. But who are you, and
what do ye want with the parson's mail?"

"Oh, I live with him now. I'm Dan, old Jim's boy. Didn't you know I was
there?"

"Ha, ha, that's a good one! To think that I should know every brat who
comes to the place."

"I'm not a brat! I'm almost a man," and Dan straightened himself up. "Give
me my mail, please; Parson John's waiting for it."

"Let 'im wait. I'm not supposed to give out mail to all the riff-raff who
comes fer it. Why doesn't he come 'imself?"

"He's busy."

"Busy! busy! Yes, I s'pose he is busy, plannin' mischief; wonderin' what
to do with Billy Fletcher's gold. How much did he git? I s'pose he gave
you some to hold yer tongue."