ask for an English translation. A woman behind was prodding him
between the shoulder-blades with the sharp edge of a package wrapped
for mailing. He shuffled away from the window and wandered helplessly,
swept up by the tide of hurrying people that flowed continuously into
the building and ebbed out of it. From this he was tossed into a
backwater that brought him to another window.

"I wantta see the postmaster of this burg," he announced again with a
plaintive whine.

"What about?" asked the man back of the grating.

"Important business, _amigo_. Where's he at?"

The man directed him to a door upon which was printed the legend,
"Superintendent of Complaints." Inside, a man was dictating a letter
to a stenographer. The bow-legged man in the wrinkled suit waited
awkwardly until the letter was finished, twirling in his hands a white,
broad-rimmed hat with pinched-in crown. He was chewing tobacco. He
wondered whether it would be "etiquette" to squirt the juice into a
waste-paper basket standing conveniently near.

"Well, sir! What can I do for you?" the man behind the big desk
snapped.

"I wantta see the postmaster."

"What about?"

"I got important business with him."

"Who are you?"

"Me, I'm Johnnie Green of the B-in-a-Box Ranch. I just drapped in from
Arizona and I wantta see the postmaster."

"Suppose you tell your troubles to me."

Johnnie changed his weight to the other foot. "No, suh, I allow to see
the postmaster himself personal."

"He's busy," explained the official. "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 tellin