What a fool he was not to have thought of that!
There was a small package in his lockbox at the postoffice--and
two or three letters. The package was from New York, addressed in
his mother's hand.
He stopped at the general delivery window for a chat with Mrs.
Pollock.
"I had forgotten all about my birthday," he said, "but here's
mother reminding me of it as usual. She never forgets,--and, hang
it all, she won't let ME forget." He fingered the unopened package
lovingly.
"Goodness me, Mr. Thane,--is this your birthday?" she cried excitedly.
"We must have a celebration. We can't allow--"
"Alas, it is too late. Your super-efficient postal service has
brought this to me just forty-eight hours behind time. Day before
yesterday was the day, now that I think of it."
Mrs. Pollock mentally resolved to indite a short poem to him,
notwithstanding. She could feel it coming, even as she stood there
talking to him. The first line was already written, so to speak.
It went:
"The flight of Time has brought once more--"
He continued, oblivious to the workings of the Muse: "Twenty-nine!
By Jove, I begin to feel that I'm getting on in life." He ripped
open one of the envelopes.
Maude Baggs Pollock looked intently at the ceiling of the outer
office, and thought of line number two:
"The busy Reaper to his door,"
She hastily snatched a pencil from her hair and began jotting
down these precious lines.
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