"Why, Miss Simmons, there is Walter now," he said.
"Oh, so it is," cried the old maid, starting down the street.
A dusty, tired-out little youngster came towards them. Bob walked on with Miss Simmons, until they reached him.
"You bad little boy!" cried Miss Simmons, seizing Walter by the arms. "Where have you ever been?"
"I've been playing postman, that's all," replied the little fellow.
He perked up in a proud sort of a way as he said this, Bob thought.
"Postman?" repeated Miss Simmons, with a sniff.
"Yes, Aunty."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I've been giving out letters all along the street, 'way, 'way down it," replied the little urchin, with a slow, long sweep of his chubby little arm.
"What letters? Where did you get them?" asked Miss Simmons, sharply.
"Just out of the box on your bureau, Aunty," was the innocent reply.
"Out of—my box—on—the bureau!" almost shrieked Miss Simmons, turning pale.
"Yes, Aunty."
"And what did you do with them?" cried Miss Simmons, greatly excited.
"I passed them out, just as our postman does, to all the houses."
"O-oh! o-oh!" screamed the old maid.
Then she fell against the fence as if overcome, and slipped to the ground. She wrung her hands, and screamed outright. The amazed Bob saw her roll over on the grass in a fit of hysterics.
