He was seated in a dismal room—one of
those rooms which, in a language written on
the walls and upon the furniture, and upon
the stray articles of clothing, tell you of
Poverty.
He was shivering with a chill, his face
being pale and pinched, his eyes full of
anxiety and suffering.
After the preliminaries, which you can.
imagine, he told me of his trouble.
He was an R. F. D. rider. He was serving
the average route of 22 miles.
The salary was not sufficient to support
his family and pay the taxes on his home.
A rich mining company, three miles off
his route, and on the other side of a danger
ous creek, was trying to have the route
extended to the gold-mine.
This would mean an additional six miles,
to go and come, and those six miles were the
worst in McDuffie County.
“Tom, it will ruin me!” he cried, piteously.
“I would have to buy and feed another
horse, and that expense would eat up the
salary.
“For the sake of my wife and children, use
your influence with our Congressmen to pre
vent this injustice being done me.”
I told him I would try.
All of my efforts to stop the addition to
the R. F. D. ride of my friend came to
nought, so far as “our Congressmen” were
concerned.
The P. O. Department had determined to
gratify the owners of the gold mine.
The poor old R. F. D. rider might go to
hell: others would take his job.
