The beaten path led to a screen door which sagged with much
slamming, leaving a wide space at the top through which flies
passed in and out quite comfortably. Bud saw that, also, and
his fingers itched to reset that door, just as he would have
done for his mother--supposing his mother would have
tolerated the slamming which had brought the need. Bud lifted
his gloved knuckles to knock, saw that the room within was
grimy and bare and meant for public use, very much like the
office of a country hotel, with a counter and a set of
pigeon-holes at the farther end. He walked in.
No one appeared, and after ten minutes or so Bud guessed why,
and went back to the door, pushed it wide open and permitted
it to fly shut with a bang. Whereupon a girl opened the door
behind the counter and came in, glancing at Bud with frank
curiosity.
Bud took off his hat and clanked over to the counter and
asked if there was any mail for Bud Birnie--Robert Wallace
Birnie.
The girl looked at him again and smiled, and turned to
shuffle a handful of letters. Bud employed the time in trying
to guess just what she meant by that smile.
It was not really a smile, he decided, but the beginning of
one. And if that were the beginning, he would very much like
to know what the whole smile would mean.
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