“I don’t see why you don’t go after your mail every day at least, especially when Miss Messiter was expecting me. To leave me waiting here thirty hours—I’ll not stand it. When does the next train leave for Detroit?” she asked, imperiously.
The situation seemed to call for diplomacy, and Jim McWilliams moved to a nearer chair. “I’m right sorry it happened, ma’am, and I’ll bet Miss Messiter is, too. Y’u see, we been awful busy one way and ’nother, and I plumb neglected to send one of the boys to the post-office.”
“Why didn’t one of them walk over after supper?” she demanded, severely.
He curbed the smile that was twitching at his facial muscles.
“Well, o’ course it ain’t so far,—only forty-three miles—still—”
“Forty-three miles to the post-office?”
“Yes, ma’am, only forty-three. If you’ll excuse me this time—”
“Is it really forty-three?”
He saw that her sudden smile had brought out the dimples in the oval face and that her petulance had been swept away by his astounding information.
“Forty-three, sure as shootin’, except twict a week when it comes to Slauson’s, and that’s only twenty miles,” he assured her. “Used to be seventy-two, but the Government got busy with its rural free delivery, and now we get it right at our doors.”