Casket. Use the fine ones for pot-holes and the bigger ones for running
water or falls. Let me know when you've got 'em. Write to Lock Box No.
1290. That's where dad's letters come. So no more at present.
From yours truly,
JIM BELCHER.
Not only did Leonidas know that this was not from the real Jim, but he
felt the vague contact of a new, charming, and original personality
that fascinated him. Of course, it was only natural that one of HER
friends--as he must be--should be equally delightful. There was no
jealousy in Leonidas's devotion; he knew only a joy in this fellowship
of admiration for her which he was satisfied that the other boy must
feel. And only the right kind of boy could know the importance of
his ravishing gift, and this Jim was evidently "no slouch"! Yet, in
Leonidas's new joy he did not forget HER! He ran back to the stockade
fence and lounged upon the road in view of the house, but she did not
appear.
Leonidas lingered on the top of the hill, ostentatiously examining a
young hickory for a green switch, but to no effect. Then it suddenly
occurred to him that she might be staying in purposely, and, perhaps
a little piqued by her indifference, he ran off. There was a mountain
stream hard by, now dwindled in the summer drouth to a mere trickling
thread among the boulders, and there was a certain "pot-hole" that he
had long known. It was the lurking-place of a phenomenal trout,--an
almost historic fish in the district, which had long resisted the
attempt of such rude sportsmen as miners, or even experts like himself.
Few had seen it, except as a vague, shadowy bulk in the four feet of
depth and gloom in which it hid; only once had Leonidas's quick eye
feasted on its fair proportions. On that memorable occasion Leonidas,
having exhausted every kind of lure of painted fly and living bait,
was rising from his knees behind the bank, when a pink five-cent stamp
dislodged from his pocket fluttered in the air, and descended slowly
upon the still pool. Horrified at his loss, Leonidas leaned over to
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