The Strike at Too Dry
By Willis Brindley
Young Percival came out of the East to a Montana ranch, and a pleasant time was not had by all—though the reader will be much diverted.
The postmaster at Too Dry poked his head out of the door of the shack which served as combination of post office, real-estate office and residence, spat generously into the dusty road and yelled to the big man who had drawn up at what might in a city have been called the curb.
“Letter for you, Dog.”
“Who? Me?”
“I guess it’s for you. Came yesterday. It’s in a thick envelope and the address is Percival John Bigelow, Too Dry, Montana.”
“That’s me,” agreed Dog, and added mournfully: “Well, if that don’t beat the scratch. That’s two letters I got so far this year. If this keeps up, I’ll have to hire me a secretary. Bring it out to the car, Steve. What did she say?”
But the postmaster had returned, with the popping suddenness of a prairie-dog, to his hole of an office, and Dog saw that he must follow or do without his letter.