The shopmen at the butcher’s, whom he had questioned the day before, told him that letters were put in post-boxes, and from the boxes were carried about all over the earth in mailcarts with drunken drivers and ringing bells. Vanka ran to the nearest post-box, and thrust the precious letter in the slit.…

An hour later, lulled by sweet hopes, he was sound asleep.… He dreamed of the stove. On the stove was sitting his grandfather, swinging his bare legs, and reading the letter to the cooks.…

By the stove was Eel, wagging his tail.