He looked up from a New York newspaper, three days old.
"Pioneer people," he observed laconically, "must expect to fight everything from real estate agents to buffaloes."
The Post Mistress laid down her sewing. Her official duties were not arduous. They left her between trains ample time to attend to those of her household, sewing and all, also to embroider upon bits of gossip caught here and there in regard to her scattered neighbors whose lights of nights were like so many stars dotting the horizon.
She looked out the window to where a tall lank farmer was tying a mule to the hitching post. Over the high wheel of the old blue cart he turned big hollow eyes her way.
"I hope he won't come before the train gets in," she sighed. "There ain't no letter for him, I hope he won't come. Sometimes I feel like I just can't tell him there ain't no letter for him."
"Who is it?" asked the Professor.
"Seth Lawson," she answered.
The Professor elevated his eyebrows.
"The man who owns the ground on which they are to build the Magic City?" he asked laughingly.
"It may happen," declared the Post Mistress tartly. "Anything is liable to happen in Kansas, the things you least expect."