"This is Lamar post-office," announced Oscar.
"There must be some mail here for me," said Armitage.
Oscar handed him several long envelopes--they bore the name of the Bronx
Loan and Trust Company, whose office in New York was his permanent
address, and he opened and read a number of letters and cablegrams that
had been forwarded. Their contents evidently gave him satisfaction, for
he whistled cheerfully as he thrust them into his pocket.
"You keep in touch with the world, do you, Oscar? It is commendable."
"I take a Washington paper--it relieves the monotony, and I can see where
the regiments are moving, and whether my old captain is yet out of the
hospital, and what happened to my lieutenant in his court-martial about
the pay accounts. One must observe the world--yes? At the post-office
back there"--he jerked his head to indicate--"it is against the law to
sell whisky in a post-office, so that storekeeper with the red nose and
small yellow eyes keeps it in a brown jug in the back room."
"To be sure," laughed Armitage. "I hope it is a good article."
"It is vile," replied Oscar.
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