Johnnie changed his weight to the other foot. "No, suh, I allow to see the postmaster himself personal."
"He's busy," explained the official. "He can't possibly see anybody without knowing his business."
"Tha's all right. I've lost my pal. I wantta see—"
The Superintendent of Complaints cut into his parrot-like repetition. "Yes, you mentioned that. But the postmaster doesn't know where he is, does he?"
"He might tell me where his mail goes, as the old sayin' is."
"When did you lose your friend?"
"I ain't heard from him since he come to New York. So bein' as I got a chanct to go from Tucson with a jackpot trainload of cows to Denver, I kinda made up my mind to come on here the rest of the way and look him up. I'm afraid some one's done him dirt."
"Do you know where he's staying?"
"No, suh, I don't."
The Superintendent of Complaints tapped with his fingers on the desk. Then he smiled. The postmaster was fond of a joke. Why not let this odd little freak from the West have an interview with him?