njoying himself in
the lonely dining-room. "Come on, Johnny. Please!"

It was his lady who commanded, so he obeyed. They had drawn a green
portiere across the curtain pole in the doorway until the little alcove
with the bookcase was shut off from the larger room for all practical
intents and purposes. Jimmy, the Southern Avenue boy, waxing more and
more masterful, had appointed himself postmaster, and strutted beside
the narrow opening which remained. And to hold that position in a game
of "Post-office" is no slight thing. Not only is the postmaster the sole
witness of all that transpires behind the secretive curtain, but he is
privileged to turn over the exalted office to a temporary substitute and
hale the lady of his heart forward, if he so desires.

There was no lack of mail. Hardly had the window been declared open than
the postmaster's chum stepped up and, after a moment of whispered
conversation, disappeared behind the portiere. Called the master of
ceremonies in stentorian tones:

"Two packages and three letters for Martha Gill!"

Martha Gill shook her head. Cries of "Go ahead" arose from the boys,
while the girls tittered at her embarrassment. At last she gathered up
courage and darted past the sentinel. John stared in amazement. Two
packages and three letters--two hugs and three kisses--what was there in
that overdressed little doll to merit such favor?

Correspondence became fast and furious. Eventually the postmaster called
John forward and whispered a name in his ear before he went into the
alcove. His appointee, concealing his astonishment as best he could,
called out, "Ella Black, Ella Black; four letters for Ella Black!" at
the top of his lungs. But for that much-despised young lady to be so
honored by the social lion of the evening was more than he could
comprehend.

As the postmaster resumed his duties, a voice cried, "Johnny, it's your
turn. You haven't sent any mail yet."

John flushed and shook his head. Tormenting whispers of "'Fraid cat!
'Fraid cat!" carried to where he stood, and some imp of mischief began
that scornful chant:

C'ardy, c'ardy, custard,
Eatin' bread an' mustard!

He clenched his fists. If it must be, he'd show them he was no coward! A
moment later, as he stood tensely in the alcove, came the postmaster's
cry of "One letter for Louise Martin," and the green curtain swung aside
to admit her.

[Illustration: A second helping of ice cream.]

She returned from th