“All right!” he announced, briskly. “Now then! Cap’n Snow’s first. Yes, sir! here you are. Quite a bunch of mail you’ve got this evenin’. All right, Hamilton, you’re next ... just a minute, Mr. Doane; I’ll attend to you in a jiffy.... Now, now, you boy! you hold on; you take your turn. No use shovin’, you won’t get it any sooner. This business has to be done systematic.” The group before the window thinned as its members received their shares of the mail matter. Some departed immediately, others lingered to open envelopes or for a final chat. Suddenly there was a stir and a turning of heads toward the door. Some one had entered, some one of importance. There was a buzz of respectful greeting. “Why, good evening, Cap’n Townsend!”... “How d’ye do, Cap’n?”... “Kind of bad night to be out in, ain’t it? Yes, ’tis.” The salutations in general were of this kind. There were a few, and these from persons of consequence, which were more familiar. Judge Wixon said “Good evening, Foster,” and paused to shake hands, but even he was not in the least flippant. The Reverend Mr. Colton, minister of the old First Church, was most cordial, even anxiously so. “I stopped at your door, Captain Townsend,” he began, “but Mrs. Gifford told me--I gathered from what she said--” The great man broke in. “Yes, all right, Colton,” he said. “I’ll see you pretty soon. I haven’t made up my mind yet. To-morrow or next day, maybe. Hello, Ben! Evening, Paine.” He moved forward to the window, those before him making way for his passing. Millard Fillmore Clark’s bow was a picture, his urbanity a marvel. He brushed aside a lad who was clamoring for the copy of the Cape Cod _Item_ in the family box and addressed the distinguished patron of the postal service. “Good evenin’, Cap’n Townsend,” he gushed, “Yes, _sir_! I’ve got your mail all ready for you. It’s such a mean night I didn’t hardly expect you’d come for it yourself, but I had it all laid out cal’latin’ if Vaninas showed up, I’d--Eh? Oh, yes, here ’tis! There’s consider’ble of it, same as there generally is. Yes, indeed!” Foster Townsend paid no attention to the flow of language. He took the packet of letters and papers and thrust it into the pocket of his ulster, and, pushing the speaker unceremoniously out of the way, leaned through the window and addressed the postmistress. “Reliance,” he said. Miss Clark, already tidying up the little room preparatory to closing for the night, looked over her shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “What is it?” “Come here a minute. I want to speak to you.” Reliance finished brushing the counter before she complied. Then, pushing her half-brother a little farther from the window, she stepped to the place he had occupied. Millard accepted the push with as much dignity as was possible under the circumstances. It was no novelty; he was pushed out of some one’s way at least a dozen times a day.