“It’s a hand-embroidered dressing-sack,” she says melancholy. “You don’t never want that!” “Yes--yes, I do,” he says, still laughing, “yes, I do. It’s a straight bid.” “Oh, my land!” says Mis’ Holcomb, her voice slipping, “then we’ve got it. We’ve got it all right here!” But while she was a-saying it, a big, deep voice boomed out all over her and the rest that was exclaiming. “Ticket to where?” says the private-Santa-Claus-looking man in the fur coat. “Wooster, this state,” says I, being Mis’ Holcomb was almost speechless. “Well, now,” says the private Santa Claus, “don’t we go pretty close to Wooster? Where’s that map we wore out? Well, I know we go pretty close to Wooster. Why can’t we take your Master Stubby to Wooster in the car? We’re going on to-night--if we ever get to that general-delivery window,” he ends in a growl. And _that_ was the time the line made way--the line that never moves for no one. And the Santa Claus man went up and got his mail. And while he was a-doing it, I run out after Stubby, setting on a barrel in the grocery, happy with three cranberries they’d give him. And as I come back in the door with him, I see Mis’ Holcomb just showing his rose to the young lady with the ermine and the roses. And then I see for sure by the young lady’s eyes that she wasn’t the way I’d thought she was--laughing _at_ us. Why, her eyes were as soft and understanding as if she didn’t have a cent to her name. And I donno but more so. “Oh, father,” I heard her say, “I’m glad we came in for the mail ourselves! _What_ if we hadn’t?” And I concluded I didn’t mind that word _quaint_ half as much as I thought I did. Every last one of the line went out of the post-office to see Stubby off, and the man at the window, he came too. They had a big warm coat they put the little boy into, and we wrapped up his rose and put that in the car, so’s it would get there sooner and save the postage, same time, and they tucked him away as snug as a bug in a rug, his little face just shining out for joy. “Oh, and you can buy your presents back now,” says Libby Liberty to Mis’ Holcomb right in the middle of it. “No, sir,” says Mis’ Holcomb, proud. “A bargain is a bargain, and I made mine.” And then she thought of something. “Oh,” she says, leaning forward to the window of the car, “don’t you want to sell your presents back again?” “No!” they all told her together. “We made a straight bid, you know.” “_Then_,” says Mis’ Holcomb, “let’s us give Stubby the money to put in his pocket and take the one-way fare to his mother!” And that was what they done. And the big car rolled off down Daphne Street, with Stubby in it going like a king. And when we all got back in the post-office, what do you s’pose? There was the crocheted towel and the hand-embroidered dressing-sack slipped back all safe into Mis’ Holcomb’s shopping-bag! But she wouldn’t take the other things back--she would not, no matter what Mis’ Wiswell and Mis’ Merriman said.