As he went down to the train-shed platform he passed the door of the telegraph room. The operator had just been called to the instrument. Ralph could not resist halting to listen.
He was a quick and perfect reader of the sounder. And almost instantly his interest was caught and held by the message coming over the wire. In the first place it came from Timber Brook. At this hour Timber Brook Station, near the spot where Thirty-three had been wrecked, should be closed for the night.
The message came haltingly. The operator sending seemed to be a regular “ham,” as the telegraph fraternity call a poor sender. But Ralph could not mistake the meaning of what came over the wire:
“B. Hopkins, Super:
“If you want to see your girl again you know who to communicate with and what it will cost you. Be quick. We will not wait long. We want satisfaction.”
Ralph could not keep back an excited ejaculation. The operator swung about to look at him.
“What—what do you think of that?” he gasped.
“Get a repeat!” exclaimed the young engineer. “That wasn’t the regular operator at Timber Brook.”
“Not much! It was a rank amateur.” The operator was repeating the distant station’s call—TB, TB, TB, in staccato. There was no reply. The wire was dead. “It must be a fake.”
“No fake at all,” returned Ralph hastily. “Where is Mr. Hopkins?”
“He told me he was going to the hospital to see how his wife was, and he would be back. Here he is!”