"Mail's in, Frank," he announced at last, putting on his cap.
"All right," nodded Frank, keeping on with his writing.
"Fatal hour approaches. We shall soon know our doom," continued Markham in a mock-alarm way.
He picked up a new canvas mail satchel marked "F. M. O. H.," and started for the door.
"See here," hailed Frank, "don't you think you can about carry all of our first morning's mail in some modest pocket?"
"Don't care if I can. Big mail satchel makes a good business impression, see?" and Markham darted off, wondering if Frank's heart was beating as fast as his own over the suspense attached to their first mail results.
Frank was indeed anxious, but he tried to go on with his writing. All the same his nerves were on keen edge and his hand was a trifle unsteady, as Markham returned from the post office and placed the satchel on the desk before him.
"Eight letters," said Frank, drawing out the mail in the satchel. "That isn't so bad. Well, let us see what our correspondents have to say."
Frank cut open the end of the first missive, and Markham watched him like a ferret.
