"I don't think you'd believe me, even if I told you," was my somewhat ungracious reply.
"Probably not," he said. But he said it with a ghost of a sigh.
"Positively not," I amended.
"But there's still the question of what we're going to do about it," he ruminated aloud.
I turned and closed the bag-top with a snap.
"What do you intend to do about it?" I demanded.
He looked at me solemnly, studiously, as if he imagined he could read right down to my shoe-numbers by staring into my eyes. It must have been the way the Prince of Denmark peered into the face of his altogether disappointing Ophelia.
"Especially as I don't see a mail-box anywhere in the neighborhood!" I meekly ventured, remembering only too vividly a certain afternoon at Long Beach.
I was hoping he would laugh at that, but all he did was to stand up.
"I'll tell you what I'm going to do about it," he solemnly announced. "I'm going to take this whole thing into my own hands!"
"And then what?" I somewhat mockingly in-
