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Anyway, she knew right where to put her fingers on Joe Bruzinski's card and shoots us back his mailin' address by lunch time. It's Coffee Creek, Pa. "What an absurd place to live in!" says Waddy. "And how on earth can we ever find it." "Eh?" says I. "We?" "But I couldn't possibly get there by myself," says Waddy. "I've never been west of Philadelphia.
He carried it down to the post-office, and deposited it with his own hands in the proper box. Just on the steps of the building, as he was coming out, he met Johnny Nolan, who had been sent on an errand to Wall Street by some gentleman, and was just returning. "What are you doin' down here, Dick?" asked Johnny. "I've been mailin' a letter." "Who sent you?" "Nobody." "I mean, who writ the letter?"
Just a two-ounce, woodpulp, mailin' cartridge lined with oiled paper, that could be turned out for a dollar a thousand, pint and quart sizes, indestructible, absolutely sanitary, air tight, germ proof, and so on.
But the knowledge did not abash him in the least. He accommodated himself at once to the situation with that adaptability common to the American youth, whether of the South, North, East or West. “Where abouts did you leave David when you come away?” she asked with a studied indifference. “Hol’ on there, Buckskin w’ere you takin’ us? W’y, I lef’ him at the sto’ mailin’ lettas.”
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