The postmaster shook his head.
"Wouldn't do any good, young man. Mr. Spence no longer lives there," he said.
"Do you happen to know where he could be found, sir? I have a very important message to deliver to him, which I promised to hand over while we were passing along this section of the coast."
To the surprise of Jack the official looked grave.
"The rules of the department are very strict, sir, and prevent me from telling you where Mr. Spence gets his mail now." Then seeing Jack's look of bitter disappointment, and partly relenting, he continued: "But there's a party over yonder who knows just as well as I do, and is under no restrictions either. A drink, or a quarter, would do the business with Pete Smalling."
"Thank you; I'll make the try anyway," and Jack hurried across to where he saw a rather disreputable citizen standing leaning against a fence, chewing a straw.
"Excuse me, are you Pete Smalling?" he asked, as he came up.
The cracker looked him over, and then grinned. Evidently he recognized that the other was a stranger in the community. Perhaps, too, he scented two bits, and later on a happy time in his favorite tavern taproom.
"Them's my name, Mistah; what kin I do foh yuh?" he remarked, with the true Southern accent.
"I want to see a certain party named Van Arsdale Spence, and the postmaster told me you would know and could direct me."