There are way-stations—even terminals. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. Emerging from this aperture, he was about to descend, when he was alarmed by hearing the tramp of horses' feet swiftly approaching, and had only time to hide himself behind one of the largest signboards before alluded to when two horsemen rode up. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. “The next question, Miss Anna,” he said, “is how am I to help you? I am wholly at your disposal. Then instinct took over. What’s your name?” He asked in return. “But the thing is, I want a job. Within ten minutes he had read much more than had greeted his eye.
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