Up rushed Van.
"They're complaining at the post office," he squealed. "You've got to give
me your bag. Folks can't get their letters. Give me the bag." He thrust out
both hands.
Joel turned on him in a fury,
"You aren't going to have my bag," he screamed.
"I am, too; you're so slow, and don't give out the letters," said Van,
delighted to find some chance to get the best of Joel, and quite important
to be sent with a message to such an effect.
"You shan't either; I ain't slow," cried Joel, answering both statements at
once, and whirling around in an endeavor to keep the bag at his back. But
Van flew for it, disdaining to waste more time over arguments.
Candace stretched out a large, black hand. "See here, now, Mas'r Van, leggo
dat bag." She seized him by the jacket collar with such a grip that he
dismissed all thoughts of the mail bag, his one concern now being to get
free from Candace.
"Ow!" he screamed, wriggling violently. "I don't want the mail bag; let me
go, Candace, do!"
"See," cried little Dick, half across the lawn, to a merry party of ladies
and gentlemen, who turned to follow the pointing of the small finger toward
Candace and her capture.
"Oh, let me go," cried Van, very red in the face at this, and trying to
duck behind her big figure, "_please,_ Candace."
"Let him go," begged Joel, just as much distressed; "he won't touch the
bag, I don't believe, again, Candace.
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