"
Rude banter followed this, but Winston took no part in it. Hastening
into the post office, he stood betraying his impatience by his very
impassiveness while a sallow-faced woman tossed the letters out upon
the counter. At last she took up two of them, and the man's fingers
trembled a little as he stretched out his hand when she said:
"That's all there are for you."
Winston recognized the writing on the envelopes, and it was with
difficulty he held his eagerness in check, but other men were waiting
for his place, and he went out and crossed the street to the hotel
where there was light to read by. As he entered it a girl bustling
about a long table in the big stove-warmed room turned with la little
smile.
"It's only you!" she said. "Now I was figuring it was Lance
Courthorne."
Winston, impatient as he was, stopped and laughed, for the
hotel-keeper's daughter was tolerably well-favored and a friend of his.
"And you're disappointed?" he said. "I haven't Lance's good looks, or
his ready tongue."
The room was empty, for the guests were thronging about the post office
then, and the girl's eyes twinkled as she drew back a pace and surveyed
the man. There was nothing in his appearance that would have aroused a
stranger's interest, or attracted more than a passing glance, as he
stood before her in a very old fur coat, with a fur cap that was in
keeping with it held in his hand.
His face had been bronzed almost to the color of a Blackfeet Indian's
by frost and wind and sun, but it was of English type from the crisp
fair hair above the broad forehead to the somewhat solid chin.
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