"Well, I'll--be--blowed." Tom spelled out the address and took the money.
"From the bungalow," Billy replied with unlooked-for promptness.
Tom had nothing more to say. The bungalow people had the right of way on the branch road. To and from the Junction the name of Drew was one to conjure with.
"I guess," Tom spat wide and far, "I guess she's aiming to decorate the hull blamed town, back there, with greens. She don't mind slashing, she don't."
"Shut up!" Billy commanded. Tom turned to look at the boy, who in the recent past had been his legitimate property, in common with others, to kick and swear at.
"Well by--" But he neither kicked nor swore at Billy. He relieved himself by expressing his feelings to inanimate objects.
Then Billy went up to the tavern. The dull pain was relaxing. The fine, cold air was clearing his muddled wits, and he felt the milk of human kindness reasserting itself in his new-born nature.
"Mr. Tate," he asked boldly, stepping behind the screen to the men's side. "Any letters here for Joyce?"
Tate, bending over a cask of beer, raised himself, and gave Billy the compliment of a long, hard stare.
"Your voice changing, Billy?" he asked blandly. "Gosh! you've growed up terrible suddint. What you doing home in the middle of the season?"
"Got--sick," Billy muttered quite truthfully. "Any letters for Joyce?"
"I don't keep letters on _this_ side, son."
Tate felt compelled to cater to what he recognized in Billy. "And whoever heard of Joyce having letters? If you mean Gaston's mail she's sent for, then I reply straight and honest, and you can tell her--I know _my_ business!
"When Gaston calls for his mail, he gets it. When he wants Joyce to have it--he's got to send order for same. The Government down to Washington, D.C., knowed who it was selecting when it chose Leon Tate for Postmaster.
"Billy, you've changed more in a few months than any one I ever seed. You--" he hesitated, and grinned foolishly--"you feel--like a drink o' anything?"
The subtle compliment to his manhood thrilled Billy; but oh! if Tate had only known to what that manhood was due.
"No, thank you," Billy replied, pulling his trousers up ecstatically. "I don't want nothing to drink--to-day. But won't you please look and see if there ain't a letter for Joyce--with her name to it?"