No Red Indian of the prairie ever sat with more statuesque rigidity, watching his foe, than did these two friends sit watching that rat. They were sportsmen, both by nature and practice, to the backbone. The idiotic owl at their elbow was not more still than they--one point only excepted: Phil's right hand moved imperceptibly, like the hour-hand of a watch, towards a book which lay on the counter. Their patience was rewarded. Supposing, no doubt, that the youths had suddenly died to suit its convenience, the rat advanced a step or two, looked suspicious, became reassured, advanced a little farther and displayed its tail to full advantage. After smelling at various objects, with a view, no doubt, to supper, it finally came on the letters, appeared to read their addresses with some attention, and, seizing one by a corner, began apparently to open it. At this point Phil Maylands' fingers, closing slowly but with the deadly precision of fate, grasped the book and hurled it at the foe, which was instantly swept off its legs. Either the blow or the fright caused the rat to fly wriggling into the air. With a shriek of agonised emotion, it vanished behind the pelican of the wilderness. "Bravo, Phil! splendidly aimed, but rather low," cried Aspel, as he vaulted the counter and dislodged the pelican. Of course the rat was gone. After a little more conversation the two friends quitted the place and went to their respective homes. "Very odd and absolutely unaccountable," observed Mr Blurt, as he sat next morning perusing the letters above referred to, "here's the same thing occurred again. Brownlow writes that he sent a cheque a week ago, and no one has heard of it. That rascal who made off with the cash could not have stolen it, because he never stole cheques,--for fear, no doubt, of being caught,--and this was only for a small amount. Then, here is a cheque come all right from Thomson. Why should one appear and the other disappear?" "Could the rats have made away with it?" suggested Aspel, who had told his patron of the previous night's incident. "Rats might destroy letters, but they could not eat them--at least, not during the few hours of the night that they lie on the floor. No; the thing is a mystery. I cannot help thinking that the Post-Office is to blame. I shall make inquiries. I am determined to get to the bottom of it." So it ever is with mankind. People make mistakes, or are guilty of carelessness, and straightway they lay the blame--not only without but against reason--on broader shoulders than their own. That wonderful and almost perfect British Post-Office delivers quickly, safely, and in good condition above fourteen hundred millions of letters etcetera in the year, but some half-dozen letters, addressed to Messrs. Blurt and Company, have gone a-missing,--therefore the Post-Office is to blame!