“Was you fixin’ to go up an’ see the place?” inquired the agent.
“Shall I be obliged to walk?”
“I guess you will if you can’t flutter,” replied the agent. “I ain’t got no wagon an’ no horse.”
“How far is it?”
“Five mile, sir.”
With a groan Mr. Briggs arose, lifted his suit-case, and, walking to the platform’s edge, cast an agitated glance up the dusty road.
Then he turned around and examined the single building in sight—station, water-tower, post-office and telegraph-office all in one, and incidentally the abode of the station-agent, whose duties included that of postmaster and operator.
“I’ll write a letter first,” said Briggs. And this is what he wrote:
Rose-Cross P.O.,
June 25, 1904.
Dear Wayne: Do you remember that tract of land, adjoining your preserve, which you attempted to buy four years ago? It was held by a crank community, and they refused to sell, and made trouble for your patrols by dumping dye-stuffs and sawdust into the Ashton Creek.