It is hardly necessary to say that they lived in a fever of excitement and suspense after that, and anxiously awaited an answer from the gentleman who wanted the 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 think up some way to earn money enough to get one, and when I am just about to accomplish my object, you and Don have to jump up and rob me of the chance.  The man tells me that he would be glad to give me the contract, if he hadn’t given it to you.  I’ve a good notion to slap you over.”