I was making Frosty my model those days.
He said: "All right--your pay starts on the fifteenth of next month"-- which was April.

Then he got down from the fence and went off, and I mounted Shylock and rode away to Laurel, after the mail.

Not that I expected any, for no one but dad knew where I was, and I hadn't heard a word from him, though I knew he wrote to Perry Potter--or his secretary did--every week or so.

Really, I don't think a father ought to be so chesty with the only son he's got, even if the son is a no-account young cub.
I was standing in the post-office, which was a store and saloon as well, when an old fellow with stubby whiskers and a jaw that looked as though it had been trimmed square with a rule, and a limp that made me know at once who he was, came in.

He was standing at the little square window, talking to the postmaster and waving his pipe to emphasize what he said, when a horse went past the door on the dead run, with bridle-reins flying.
A fellow rushed out past us--it was his horse--and hit old King's elbow a clip as he went by.