The postmaster touched a button.  A clerk appeared, received orders, and disappeared.

Johnnie, now on the subject of his hero, continued to harp on his points.  “You’re damn whistlin’ Clay ain’t like me.  He’s the best hawss-buster in Arizona.  The bronco never was built that can pile him, nor the man that can lick him.  Clay’s no bad hombre, you understand, but there can’t nobody run it over him.  That’s whatever.  All I’m afraid of is some one’s gave him a raw deal.  He’s the best blamed old son-of-a-gun I ever did meet up with.”

The clerk presently returned with three letters addressed to Clay Lindsay, General Delivery, New York.  The postmaster handed them to the little cowpuncher.

“Evidently he never called for them,” he said.

Johnnie’s chin fell.  He looked a picture of helpless woe.  “They’re the letters I set down an’ wrote him my own se’f.  Something has sure happened to that boy, looks like,” he bemoaned.

“We’ll try Police Headquarters.  Maybe we can get a line on your friend,” the postmaster said, reaching for the telephone.  “But you must remember New York is a big place.  It’s not like your Arizona ranch.  The city has nearly eight million inhabitants.”

“I sure found that out already, Mr. Postmaster.  Met every last one of ‘em this mo’nin’, I’ll bet.  Never did see so many humans millin’ around.  I’ll say they’re thick as cattle at a round-up.”

“Then you’ll understand that when one man gets lost it isn’t always possible to find him.”

“Why not?  We got some steers down in my country—­about as many as you got men in this here town of yourn.  Tha’s what we ride the range for, so’s not to lose ’em.  We’ve traced a B-in-a-Box steer clear from Tucson to Denver, done it more’n onct or twice too.  I notice you got a big bunch of man-punchers in uniform here.  Ain’t it their business to rustle up strays?”

“The police,” said the postmaster, amused.  “That is part of their business.  We’ll pass the buck to them anyhow.”

After some delay and repeated explanations of who he was, the postmaster got at the other end of the wire his friend the commissioner.  Their conversation was brief.  When the postmaster hung up he rang for a stenographer and dictated a letter of introduction.  This he handed to Johnnie, with explicit instructions.

“Go to Police Headquarters, Center Street, and take this note to Captain Luke Byrne.  He’ll see that the matter is investigated for you.”

Johnnie was profuse, but somewhat incoherent in his thanks.  “Much obliged to meet you, Mr. Postmaster.  An’—­an’ if you ever hit the trail for God’s Country I’ll sure—­I’ll sure—­Us boys at the B-in-a-Box we’d be right glad to—­to meet up with you.  Tha’s right, as the old sayin’ is.  We sure would.  Any ol’ time.”

The cowpuncher’s hat was traveling in a circle propelled by red, freckled hands.  The official cut short Johnnie’s embarrassment.