Explore "The Postmaster" by Joseph C. Lincoln on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
But locatin' him wa'n't such an easy matter. All we knew was he lived somewheres in Wampaquoit, and Wampaquoit is ten miles from nowhere, in the woods up around Cohasset Narrows. I got off the train at the Narrows depot, and, after considerable cruisin' and bargainin', I hired a horse and buggy, and started to drive over. I lost my way and got onto a wood road. Don't ask me about that road. I don't want to talk about it. I'd been on salt water for a good many years, and I'd seen some rough goin', but rockin' and bouncin' over that wood road come nigher to makin' me seasick than any of my Grand Banks trips. Narrow! And grown over! My land! I had to stoop to keep from bein' scraped off the seat; and, whenever I'd straighten up to ease my back, a pine branch would fetch me a slap in the face that you could hear half a mile.
As for my language, you could hear that _two_ miles. That road ruined my moral reputation, I'm afraid. They had a revival meetin' in the Narrows meetin'-house the follerin' week, but whether 'twas on my account or not I don't know.