There was some inconsequential messages during the ensuing half hour. Then a chance to tally on the route card on Ralph’s table as No. 83 was reported to have passed Fletcher, one hundred and twenty-five miles out of Rockton.
Then the commercial wire slowed down for a spell. The operator got up, stretching his cramped fingers.
“Snow two feet on the level at Rockton,” he reported, “and coming down like an avalanche. Why don’t they send me 30? I’ve got the grist up to 29. Hello, here she comes. No, she don’t. Another item.”
The operator jumped to his instrument and began to flimsy the message. Ralph arose sharply from his chair. He had lost most of the message, but one part of it had caught his hearing.
It startled him, for a name had tapped out clear and distinct, a familiar name--Glen Palmer.
[CHAPTER XXVI—AN AMAZING ANNOUNCEMENT]
The press operator rapidly wrote out the message coming over the wire, took the finished sheet, folded it, and sent it down a chute. This led to the room below where messengers were waiting for the service. The duplicate sheet he slipped over a spindle. Ralph hurriedly reached his side.
“Let me look at that last flimsy, will you?”
“Cert,” bobbed the accommodating operator, handing it to Ralph.
The latter read the hurriedly traced lines with a falling face.