looking, and she was bareheaded, and carried a door key suspended
from a smooth-worn bit of wood.

"Don't get into a perspiration making up the mail, Pete," she
advised calmly, quite ignoring both Grant and the Indian.
"Fifteen is an hour late--as usual. Jockey Bates always seems to
be under the impression he's an undertaker's assistant, and is
headed for the graveyard when he takes fifteen out. He'll get
the can, first he knows--and he'll put in a month or two
wondering why. I could make better time than he does myself."
By then she was leaning with both elbows upon the counter beside
the post-office, bored beyond words with life as it must be
lived--to judge from her tone and her attitude.

"For Heaven's sake, Pete," she went on languidly, "can't you
scare up a novel, or chocolates, or gum, or--ANYTHING to kill
time? I'd even enjoy chewing gum right now--it would give my
jaws something to think of, anyway."

Pete, grinning indulgently, came out of retirement behind the
pigeonholes, and looked inquiringly around the store.

"I've got cards," he suggested. "What's the matter with a game
of solitary? I've known men to put in hull winters alone, up in
the mountains, jest eating and sleeping and playin' solitary."

The young woman made a grimace of disgust. "I've come from three
solid hours of it. What I really do want is something to read.
Haven't you even got an almanac?"