Beadle's Dime Novels No. 38: The Wrong Man — page 25: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A WESTERN POST-9FFICE. 27 pest-boy, than was required by his oath of office in the other. On a rainy, drizzly afternoon, shortly after the incidents nafrated in the preceding chapter, the usual number of loafers at the tavern was increased by several, whose frugal wives gave them this privilege only upon such rainy days as the present. First of all was the postmaster himself, who, seated on a high stool, behind the end of the counter apportioned to the use of Government, exchanged greetings with every one who Opened the door, When asked for a letter, the postmaster never looked nor guessed amiss, for he knew the address of the twenty epistles, as if he had had them in his possession for so many years. The top of his bead was bald, and his grizzly hair brushed up toward it; and: a large quill-pen being usually placed over his ear, he wore the ap- rance of a man of business. Now and then he slid off tool to mix the drinks of his customers, and occasionally oisten his own throat, when his exceeding volubility it necessary. by the huge fireplace was the village schoolmaster, wore prodigious shirt-collars, used exceedingly long, and, Sometimes, misplaced words, and was the dernier resort in all arguments and disputes, his head being supposed to contain all the knowledge that a human skull is ever allowed to hold. He rejoiced in the name of Perkins, and, of course, was from Connecticut. He was nursing a blue umbrella between his knees, just at present, and drying his enormous boots—look- ing, at the same time, very dignified, and profoundly learned. Then there was a lazy, tipsy, overgrown, sleepy-headed fel- low, who was always in the bar-room, with his chair tipped against the wall, and his legs crossed at an elevation above his head, his eyes blinking continually, like an owl at noon- day. Then there were the shoemaker, tailor, and others hardly deserying of an individual introduction. Nathan se, the tin peddler, who, in appearance, resembled Mr. Perkins, the schoolmaster, was one of the assembled wérthies. “Mr. Hunt” said the schoolmaster, turning his head around and addressing the postmaster, “hasn’t a letter ad. dressed personally to me arTove yet ?” | “Til see, Mr. Perkins,” returned the postmaster, fumbling comicldooks.conn