The Triple Trail

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IT was a dull, sullen morning. Brooding clouds hung low over the New Jersey countryside, threatening to add new deluge to downpours that had fallen in the night. The hillside town of Droverton was blanketed beneath a gloomy pall of mist.

The morning letter carrier shouldered his nearly emptied sack and glowered up at the threatening sky. His route had taken him completely through Droverton. One more call; then he could head back for the post office. He was wondering if he would make the return trip before new rain commenced.

Pacing along a gravel sidewalk, the mail carrier thrust his hand into the bag and produced a half dozen letters. He checked them to make sure; all were addressed to Stanton Treblaw. The last stop on the route.

Funny old duck, Stanton Treblaw. That was the carrier’s opinion, despite the fact that he had seldom met Treblaw in person. Musing as he strode along, the mailman recalled Stanton Treblaw as a white-haired individual with a reddish, rounded face.

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