You see, Parsons’ travels happened like this: When he first got to be postmaster and was green in the business, there come a letter for somebody he didn’t know, and there wasn’t any such person in the village. Well, he didn’t know what to do, nor how to act, and there the letter stayed and stayed, week in and week out, till the bare sight of it gave him a conniption. The postage wasn’t paid on it, and that was another thing to worry about. There wasn’t any way to collect that ten cents, and he reckon’d the gov’ment would hold him responsible for it and maybe turn him out besides, when they found he hadn’t collected it. Well, at last he couldn’t stand it any longer. He couldn’t sleep nights, he couldn’t eat, he was thinned down to a shadder, yet he da’sn’t ask anybody’s advice, for the very person he asked for advice might go back on him and let the gov’ment know about the letter. He had the letter buried under the floor, but that did no good; if he happened to see a person standing over the place it’d give him the cold shivers, and loaded him up with suspicions, and he would sit up that night till the town was still and dark, and then he would sneak there and get it out and bury it in another place. Of course, people got to avoiding him and shaking their heads and whispering, because, the way he was looking and acting, they judged he had killed somebody or done something terrible, they didn’t know what, and if he had been a stranger they would’ve lynched him. Well, as I was saying, it got so he couldn’t stand it any longer; so he made up his mind to pull out for Washington, and just go to the President of the United States and make a clean breast of the whole thing, not keeping back an atom, and then fetch the letter out and lay it before the whole gov’ment, and say, “Now, there she is—do with me what you’re a mind to; though as heaven is my judge I am an innocent man and not deserving of the full penalties of the law and leaving behind me a family that must starve and yet hadn’t had a thing to do with it, which is the whole truth and I can swear to it.” So he did it. He had a little wee bit of steamboating, and some stage-coaching, but all the rest of the way was horseback, and it took him three weeks to get to Washington. He saw lots of land and lots of villages and four cities. He was gone ’most eight weeks, and there never was such a proud man in the village as he when he got back. His travels made him the greatest man in all that region, and the most talked about; and people come from as much as thirty miles back in the country, and from over in the Illinois bottoms, too, just to look at him—and there they’d stand and gawk, and he’d gabble. You never see anything like it.