"There was a city directory on a shelf right at his elbow, and when I thought of that several miles of waiting-room between me and the information desk, I felt like pinching him. I turned around, though, and started on the journey. I didn't dare to leave my belongings setting around there alone, and so I lugged them along.
"My umbrella was dragging when I reached the desk. I unloaded, and stretched my arms, and then tackled the directory. There it was, perfectly plainly to be seen, 'R. M. Kirby, 1944 Iuka Avenue.' There wasn't any way around it;—but I couldn't see that it helped me any.
"I turned to the information man. He was still writing,—and kept on. 'If you please,' I said.
"When he had written two or three sentences more, he looked up.
"'I wonder if you can't advise me a little,' I said.
"He dipped his pen again. 'What is it?' he said, holding it close to the paper and looking at it.
"I began at the beginning and told him all about it, going carefully into every detail. When
