He used to come over every mail-night and bring his newspaper with him.

Bob could n't read a word, so he always got Dad to spell over the paper to him.

WE did n't take a newspaper.
Bob said there were clouds gathering behind Flat Top when he came in, and Dad went out and looked, and for the fiftieth time that day prayed in his own way for rain.

Then he took the paper, and we gathered at the table to listen.

"Hello," he commenced, "this is M'Doolan's paper you've got, Bob." Bob rather thought it was n't.
"Yes, yes, man, it IS," Dad put in; "see, it's addressed to him." Bob leaned over and LOOKED at the address, and said: "No, no, that's mine; it always comes like that." Dad laughed.