“NELL FOUND THAT SHE WAS BY FAR
THE MORE EXPERT ON SNOW-SHOES”
But the telegraph wires were high above them, carried here on some dead spruce trees of which the branches had been lopped clean away, leaving only naked stems standing.
There were young trees growing beside these old dead stems, and their snow-laden branches sagging downward had wrought the mischief on the wires.
The inspector had brought a small handsaw with his other tools, and, mounting the post, he speedily cut away the encumbrance, while Nell watched him from below, dodging the debris as it came down.
“Another day of this kind of thing, and the wire would have been broken,” said the inspector.
“Then no messages could have gone through, which would have been awkward,” Nell remarked. She had been busy tying various articles to the string which had been lowered by her companion for the purpose, thus saving him the trouble and loss of time of a descent from his lofty perch.
“No message could have been sent unless the two ends were held in contact so that the current could pass. But if the wire were broken or cut here, I could send without an instrument,” he replied. Being by nature a teacher, and only by training an inspector, he instinctively sowed information wherever the soil seemed fertile.
“Could you? How?” Nell’s face, as she stood looking up, was tense and eager, so that, despite his official brusqueness, the inspector smiled as he glanced downward.