Arf by Spencer Quinn

Author:Spencer Quinn
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2016-05-02T07:00:00+00:00

We ran down Gentilly Lane, to a blue metal box not far from our house, the same metal box that Birdie had dropped the envelope into the day before. She pulled open the little door and peered inside. “Can’t see a thing,” she said. “Must be a kind of chute and all the letters fall down to the bottom. Wonder if my arm’s long enough to …” She stuck her hand in the opening, then noticed some writing on the side of the box. “ ‘Daily pickup—7:30 a.m.’ ” She stepped back. “It’s gone, Bowser. We’re too late.” She let go of the little door, which banged shut on its own.

Then we just stood there, the hot sun high in the sky.

“What are we going to do?” Birdie said.

First, find some shade. Second, lap up nice, cool water. And since we’re so close to home, practically right across the street—and home had plenty of shade and water—what was wrong with the two of us heading on over there this very minute? I made a little sidling move in that direction, but Birdie didn’t seem to get the hint.

“What happens to the mail?” Birdie said. “You put it in this box and then the mailman comes and puts it into your box at home, but what happens in between? They have systems for everything so …” She snapped her fingers. What a sound! It sent a little shiver right though me, all the way to my tail and back again. Do it again, Birdie, do it again!

But she did not. “The post office!” she said, and started up on a long, impossible-to-follow explanation about post offices, and mail, and sorting, and maybe even something called the pony express, which didn’t sound promising to me, ponies being a kind of horse and therefore unreliable. Meanwhile, we were on the move again, back toward the center of town. We passed Claymore’s General Store, got waved at by Mrs. Claymore, out sweeping the porch, and entered a building with a cool stone floor. The place smelled strongly of paper and glue. There was no one inside except the woman behind the counter.

“What can I do for you?” the woman said.

“Um,” said Birdie. “It’s about a letter.”

“You need stamps?”

“No. I already mailed the letter. I’d like to stop it. Get it back, kind of, before it gets to … to where it was going.”

“You want an intercept?”

“I guess so.”

“No problem,” said the woman. She reached for a sheet of paper on a shelf, slid it across the counter. “Just fill in Form 1509. And I’ll need eleven dollars and fifty cents.”

“Today?” Birdie said.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ll need the money today?”

“Can’t process the form without it.”

Birdie gazed at Form 1509. Her eyes went back and forth. “All these questions,” she said.

“Answer as best you can.”

“What about this one?” Birdie said, pointing out something partway down the page and turning it so the woman could see.

“That’s where you put your reason for the intercept.”

“My reason?”

“Like you forgot to write the address,” the woman said.

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