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Some folks are not too patriotic, even now, when we are facing the most terrible ordeal in our history, and some are often so weak as to be influenced by what I am sure is pro-German propaganda." Josie studied the various circulars. She studied the handwriting on the envelopes and the dates of the postmarks. Her attitude was tense, as that of a pointer dog who suddenly senses a trail.
She took the budget of letters her uncle handed her and counted five. They were all duly stamped, and all were postmarked, but the postmarks all read Haslemere. "How funny!" exclaimed Marjorie; "I didn't know there was a post office at Haslemere." "You didn't!" exclaimed Uncle Steve; "why, there certainly is.
Those things, and a good memory for handwriting, also postmarks. Say, who's that coming down the southern trail? Looks like " He broke off, shading his eyes from the burning sunlight of the valley. McBain needed no such protection. His mahogany face screwed itself up until his eyes were mere slits. "It ain't part of the patrol?" he said questioningly. "Yet it's one of our fellers.
He had imagination sufficient to conceive the lamentations they contained, and the reproach they were to his own subserviency in not sending them. He looked at the postmarks. The last one was dated two months back.
He also found that there were two letters awaiting the party at Traitor's Trap one for Charles Brooke, Esquire, and one for Mr S. Leather. They bore the postmarks of the old country. "You'd better not start back wi' them for three or four days, Dick," said Jackson, when they were seated that evening in the hall of the ranch, enjoying a cup of coffee made by the fair hands of Mary.
All Old Trail Town asks for its neighbour's mail and reads its neighbour's postmarks and gets to know the different Writings and to inquire after them, like persons. "Better write right back and chirk 'im up." Or, "Here's Her that don't seal her letters good. Tell her about that, why don't you?" Or, "This Writing's a stranger to me.
"I asked Thalassa, but he says he knows nothing about it." "Thalassa is probably lying to you as he has lied to me. One lie more or less would not weigh on his conscience." "Why should he tell a lie over such a small thing as the posting of a letter?" Barrant did not reply. He was apparently absorbed in examining the postmarks on the envelope.
The first was in a thin, strong, blue envelope, with London and Liverpool postmarks, and "per Steamer Calabria," written up in the corner, business-wise, with the date, and a dash underneath. This she opened first, for the English postmarks, associated with that handwriting, gave her a sudden thrill of bewildered surprise:
By the handwriting on the envelopes, and the postmarks on the postals, he tried to make out who was writing to him: one letter only from his wife, evidently but a single sheet, judging from its slender flexibility, three very bulky ones from Toni, a species of diary in which he continued relating his purchases, his crops, his hope of seeing the captain, all this mixed in with abundant news about the war, and the wretched condition of the people.
Daffingdon had spent many years abroad and still kept au courant with European art matters in general; he knew what they were doing in Munich no less than in Paris, and letters with foreign postmarks were always dropping in on him to tempt his mind to little excursions backward across the sea.
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