"I am afraid not; that station isn't in our line, though I hope you and I will arrive there one of these days."
She drew her pencil through the immortal name.
"You wish to have this sent to the President?"
"Av coorse; what might his name be?"
"William H. Taft."
"And his addriss is Washington?"
"That's his official address, but he stops there only now and then each year."
"Where might he be now?"
"Somewhere out West or on the Pacific coast or down at Panama—in fact, almost anywhere except at the capital of our country."
"Then can't he be raiched by telegraph?" asked Mike in dismay.