"He can't possibly see anybody
without knowing his business."
"Tha's all right. I've lost my pal. I wantta see--"
The Superintendent of Complaints cut into his parrot-like repetition.
"Yes, you mentioned that. But the postmaster doesn't know where he is,
does he?"
"He might tell me where his mail goes, as the old sayin' is."
"When did you lose your friend?"
"I ain't heard from him since he come to New York. So bein' as I got a
chanct to go from Tucson with a jackpot trainload of cows to Denver, I
kinda made up my mind to come on here the rest of the way and look him
up. I'm afraid some one's done him dirt."
"Do you know where he's staying?"
"No, suh, I don't."
The Superintendent of Complaints tapped with his fingers on the desk.
Then he smiled. The postmaster was fond of a joke. Why not let this
odd little freak from the West have an interview with him?
Twenty minutes later Johnnie was telling his story to the postmaster of
the City of New York. He had written three times to Clay Lindsay and
had received no answer. So he had come to look for him.
"And seein' as I was here, thinks I to myself thinks I it costs nothin'
Mex to go to the postmaster and ask where Clay's at," explained Johnnie
with his wistful, ingratiating, give-me-a-bone smile. "Thinks I, it
cayn't be but a little ways down to the office."
"Is your friend like you?" asked the postmaster, interested in spite of
himself.
"No, suh." Johnnie, _alias_ the Runt, began to beam.
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