THE WISH
“
Mail in?”
“Yes, sir; just arrived. What name?”
“Charles K. Spencer.”
The letter clerk seized a batch of correspondence and sorted it with nimble fingers. The form of the question told him that Spencer was interested in letters stamped for the greater part with bland presentments of bygone Presidents of the United States. In any event, he would have known, by long experience of the type, that the well dressed, straight limbed, strong faced young man on the other side of the counter was an American. He withdrew four missives from the bundle. His quick eyes saw that three bore the Denver postmark, and the fourth hailed from Leadville.
“That is all at present, sir,” he said. “Would you like your mail sent to your room in future, or shall I keep it here?”
“Right here, please, in No. 20 slot. I could receive a reply by cable while I was going and coming along my corridor.”
The clerk smiled deferentially. He appreciated not only the length of the corridor, but the price paid by the tenant of a second floor suite overlooking the river.
