So Dad went to the telephone, and called the hay and feed-store of Mr. Jake Coffey in San Elido. “Hello, Jake. Yes, we’re all fine here, how’s your old man? Say, I understand you had the nominating—I fergit the feller’s name, but the congressman from this district. Well, I never asked him a favor, but I guess I got a right to one, seeing all I put up to elect him. Well, now, you send him a telegram and tell him to toddle over to the War Department and put in an inquiry about the whereabouts and health of Paul Watkins. You got a pencil there?” Dad turned to Ruth, “What is it now? Company B, Forty-seventh California Regiment, American Expeditionary Forces to Russia. I want the War Department to cable an inquiry and have the reply cabled; you wire the congressman twenty-five dollars to cover the cost, and if there’s anything left over he can keep the change. I’ll mail you my check today. You might explain, if you want to, a member of the family is ill, and it’s a matter of life and death to get some word at once. And I’ll be obliged, Jake, and if you need any gasoline for your car, jist drop round after we git this new refinery a-goin’. How’d you like that last dividend check from the company? Ha, ha, ha! Well, so long.” For two days Ruth waited on tenter-hooks, holding her breath every time the phone rang; and at last there was the voice of Jake Coffey—Bunny answered, and he turned from the receiver right quick, saying, “Telegram from Congressman Leathers, the War Department reports that Paul is at Irkutsk and well.” Ruth gave a cry—she was standing by the dining table, and she grabbed at it and missed, and went swaying, and Bunny had to drop the receiver and catch her. And there she was, by golly, white and cold and senseless, they had to lay her out on the floor and sprinkle water on her face. And when she came to, all she could do was to cry and cry like a baby. Presently Bunny remembered the telephone receiver hanging, and went and apologized to Mr. Coffey and thanked him, and it was all Bunny could do to keep his own voice straight; the truth was, he and Dad had been more worried about Paul than they were willing to admit. After Ruth was able to sit up and smile, Dad said, “Irkutsk, where is that?” And the girl said at once, “It’s on Lake Baikal, in the middle of Siberia.” Said Dad, “Hello, where did you git your geography?” It turned out there was an old atlas among Paul’s books, and Ruth had the Siberia part clean by heart—the names of every station on the Trans-Siberian Railway—Omsk, Tomsk, Tobolsk—Dad thought it was funny, and made her say them off—by golly, if there had been a timetable attached, she’d have known when the night-freight was due at Vladivostok! She knew the physical geography of the country, the races which inhabited it, the flora and fauna and principal commercial interests, furs, lumber, wheat, dairy products.