Tha's right, as the old
sayin' is. We sure would. Any ol' time."
The cowpuncher's hat was traveling in a circle propelled by red,
freckled hands. The official cut short Johnnie's embarrassment.
"Do you know the way to Police Headquarters?"
"I reckon I can find it. Is it fur?" The man from Arizona looked down
at the high-heeled boots in which his tortured feet had clumped over
the pavements of the metropolis all morning.
"I'll send you in a taxi." The postmaster was thinking that this babe
in the woods of civilization never would be able to find his way alone.
As the driver swept the car in and out among the traffic of the narrow
streets Johnnie clung to the top of the door fearfully. Every moment
he expected a smash. His heart was in his throat. The tumult, the
rush of business, the intersecting cross-town traffic, the hub-bub of
the great city, dazed his slow brain. The hurricane deck of a bronco
had no terrors for him, but this wild charge through the humming
trenches shook his nerve.
"I come mighty nigh askin' you would you just as lief drive slower," he
said with a grin to the chauffeur as he descended to the safety of the
sidewalk. "I ain't awful hardy, an' I sure was plumb scared."
A sergeant took Johnnie in tow and delivered him at length to the
office waiting-room of Captain Anderson, head of the Bureau of Missing
Persons. The Runt, surveying the numbers in the waiting-room and those
passing in and out, was ready to revise his opinion about the possible
difficulty of the job.
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