“He ain’t been gettin’ his mail here lately, anyways,” said the postmaster. “There’s a letter here for him now—been here a week.”
He reached up to the pigeonholes, and took out a letter, peering at it through his glasses. With a shock Tom recognized the handwriting of the address.
“Why, that’s my own letter!” he cried. “That’s the letter I wrote him. He never got it.”
There was a silence in the store. Tom endeavored to collect himself.
“I fully expected him to meet me here,” he said at last. “Now I’ve got to get out to his ranch some way. Do you know where it is?”
There was a difference of opinion. Nobody seemed to be quite sure.
“I believe he lives over north somewheres,” said the postmaster. “I dunno.”
“Down the river, ain’t it?” said another.
“No, it ain’t,” said a third, decisively. “I know where the Jackson place is. It’s up on Little Coboconk, just below the narrers. I seen Dave Jackson there one day last fall. He was gettin’ out beaver-medder hay.”
“How far is it? How can I get there?” cried Tom.