quails. The mail was brought in by
the carrier from the county seat, on Wednesday and Friday afternoons,
and Bob and Lester made it a point to be on hand when the letters
were distributed. One Wednesday, about two weeks after the letter
applying for the order was mailed, Bob went down to the post-office
alone, and the first person he met there was Bert Gordon. They leaned
against the counter and talked while the mail was being put into the
boxes, and when the pigeon-hole was opened, the postmaster handed
each of them a good-sized bundle of letters and papers, which
they began to stow away in their pockets, glancing hastily at the
addresses as they did so. It happened that each of them found a
letter in his bundle, which attracted his attention, and, as if moved
by a common impulse, they walked toward opposite ends of the counter
to read them.

The letter Bert found was addressed to Don; but he was pretty certain
he could tell where it came from, and knowing that his brother
wouldn't care--there were no secrets between them, now--he opened and
read it. He was entirely satisfied with its contents, but the other
boy was not so well satisfied with the contents of his. When Bert
picked up his riding-whip and turned to leave the store, he saw Bob
leaning against the counter, mechanically folding his letter, while
his eyes were fastened upon the floor, at which he was scowling
savagely.

"What's the matter?" asked Bert. "No bad news, I hope."

"Well, it is bad news," replied Bob, so snappishly, that Bert was
sorry that he had spoken to him at all. "You see, I found an
advertisement in one of your father's papers, asking for live quails.
I wrote to the man that I could furnish them, and I have just
received an answer from him, stating that he has already sent
the order to another party, and one who lives in my immediate
neighborhood. What's the matter with you?" exclaimed Bob, as Bert
broke out into a cheery laugh.

"When did you write to him?" asked Bert.

"On the very day I borrowed the paper."

"Well, Don was just three days ahead of you. I've got the order in my
pocket."

"What do you and Don want to go into the trapping business for?"
asked Bob, with ill-concealed disgust. "You don't need the money."

"Neither do you," replied Bert.

"Yes, I do. I intended to buy a new shot-gun with it. I am almost the
only decent fellow in the settlement who doesn't own a breech-loader.
I have racked my brain for months, to