y showed
unmistakable signs of acceleration. Tossing off the soda, the stranger
dried his lips with a blue-hemmed white handkerchief. "Is this the
post-office?" he asked.

"Yep," said Mr. Lamson, who was too penurious to waste words.

"Anything here for me?" demanded the newcomer.

"I'll see," said the postmaster, and from force of habit began looking
through the pile of letters without asking the man's name. Mr. Lamson
knew everybody in the county.

"Nothing here," taking off his spectacles conclusively.

"I didn't think there was," said the other complacently. "Give me a
bottle of witch hazel, a package of invisible hair-pins and a box of
parlor matches. Quick; I'm in a hurry!"

"Did you say hat-pins?"

"No, sir; I said hair-pins."

"We haven't any that ain't visible. How would safety-pins do?"

"Never mind; give me the bottle and the matches," said the other,
glancing at a very handsome gold watch. "Is the old man still holding my
horse?" he called to a citizen near the door. Seven necks stretched
simultaneously to accommodate him, and seven voices answered in the
affirmative. The stranger calmly opened the box of matches, filled his
silver match-safe, and then threw the box back on the counter, an
unheard-of piece of profligacy in those parts. "Needn't mind wrapping
up the bottle," he said.

"Don't you care for these matches?" asked Mr. Lamson in mild surprise.

"I'll donate them to the church," said the other, tossing a coin upon
the counter and dashing from the store. The crowd ebbed along behind
him. "Gentle as a lamb, isn't he?" he called to Anderson Crow, who still
clutched the bit. "Much obliged, sir; I'll do as much for you some day.
If you're ever in New York, hunt me up and I'll see that you have a good
time. What road do I take to Crow's Cliff?"

"Turn to your left here," said Anderson Crow before he thought. Then he
called himself a fool for being so obliging to the fellow.

"How far is it from here?"

"Mile and a half," again answered Mr. Crow helplessly. This time he
almost swore under his breath.

"But he can't get there," volunteered one of the bystanders.

"Why can't he?" demanded the marshal.

"Bridge over Turnip Creek is washed out. Did you forget that?"

"Of course not," promptly replied Mr. Crow, who _had_ forgotten it;
"But, dang it, he c'n swim, can't he?"

"You say the bridge is gone?" asked the stranger, visibly excited.

"Yes, and the crick's too high to ford, too."