Although the vehicle of his professional activities had for some years been a small and stertorous automobile locally known as “Puffy Pete,” Mr. James Mindle always referred to his process of postal transfer from the station to the town as “teamin’ over the mail.” He was a frail, grinny man from the prairie country, much given to romantic imaginings and an inordinate admiration for Banneker.
Having watched from the seat of his chariot the brief but ceremonial entry of Number Three, which, on regular schedule, roared through Manzanita at top speed, he descended, captured the mail-bag and, as the transcontinental pulled out, accosted the station-agent.
“What’d she stop for, Ban?”
“Special orders.”
“Didn’t say nothin’ about havin’ a ravin’ may-ni-ac aboard, did theh?”
“No.”
“Ban, was you ever in the State of Ohio?”
“A long time ago.”
“Are Ohio folks liable to be loony?”
“Not more than others, I reckon, Jimmy.”