The Washington herald., 1906-12-09

-OR the better part of ten hours Post
master General Dix. of Samboa, sat
resting his hands and feet in the
rocker on hts front veranda- The mail
blew in semi-monthly and blew out again
the same day, via the Pacific Ocean.
When not eating his meals, the post
master enjoyed what might be termed a
cinch
Word having fallen on the hearing
of Mr.. Bloke that the postmaster Of Sam
boa included among his other virtues the
art Of photography, the tourist jollied
himself into calling upon that official. He
might pick up a few cabinets depicting
cocoanW trees. war scenes, and the nude
nobility There was another reason.
When a boy at home in Illinois, Mr..
Bloke held the portfolio Of pOstoffice
sweep, and he felt that a fraternal bond
existed between himself and J. Dix. de-
spite the fact that the SambOan Office was
never swept. Besides, Willie loved TO
veiw celebrities. whether at home or
abroad, and a postmaster is more or less
i'm the public eye.
When not otherwise engaged. the post
master sat on the veranda Of the two
story frame structure which comprised
his Office and dwelling. He was rocking
TO and fro in the cool of the evening
when Mr.. Bloke bUtted in through the
wicker gate A pensive little old man
was Mr.. J. Dix, wearing a troubled face,
closely cropped whiskers. streaked with
gray. and that fretful air of extreme
fatigue noticeable in those who dwell long
in torrid zones.
Good evening. sir. Mr.. Bloke re-
marked. ANY mail for me?'
When were you here last?" snapped
the fatigued P. VI.
Day before yesterday, I think"
The down steamer touched twelve days
ago, and there has been none since" the
postmaster said, jerkily. NO. there isn't
any mail for you, but I'll look again and
again and again, if you insist"
Please don't go to that trouble" said
Willie. somewhat abashed lie took a
seat on the edge OF the porch and wiped
his brow. I didn't expect any" he
feebly added.
Then why did you ask?" demanded
the postmaster, with a furtive side glance
at his visitor. Have you got the post
office habit?"
Mr.. Bloke did not reply. This inaus-
picious prelude 10 a social call disgusted
Willie with himself and made him tired
Ten minutes passed and the strain grew
heavier Mr. Dix dOzed spitefully in his
big rocking chair. He did not esteem
people who had the postOffice habit. Had
he known how to do it neatly, Willie
would have skiddooed. A fat, green par
ret shriedng native lingo and disjointed
sea talk in her cage kept up a one-sided
conversation with nobody in particular.
At length Mr.. Bloke ventured to assert
that it was a pleasant evening
SO it is Mr.. Dix remarked absently.
And why shouldn't it be? What's TO
prevent
Nothing, replied the caller with a
feyerish show Of enthusiasm and groping
for fresh lead on this entertaining topic.
Il don't know that ! ever saw finer
evening myself What a funny-looking
urn YOU have there"
The allusiOn 10 the urn was little short
of inspiration. though Willie was not
aware Of il when he pointed to d brown
cylindrical object not unlike a barrel,
resting midway between the fence and
porch. On top Of the stone stood small
wooden tripod, from which hung a trail
ing vine growing In a cocoanut shell.
That's no urn" said the postmaster,
awakening 10 life and ambition
What is it, then?" asked the tourist
intensely interested
TON Codders monument"
rs he buried in your front yard?"
The postmaster looked distrustfully at