"Yes," responded Mr. Whittier, a tall, handsome old gentleman, taking the telegram. "You sign, Paul."
The youngest of the three, looking like his father, took the messenger's book, and, glancing at an old-fashioned clock which stood in the corner, he wrote the name of the firm and the hour of delivery. He was watching the messenger go out. His attention was suddenly called to subjects of more importance by a sharp exclamation from his father.
"Well, well, well," said the elder Whittier with his eyes fixed on the telegram he had just read. "This is very strange—very strange indeed!"
"What's strange?" asked the third occupant of the office, Mr. Wheatcroft, a short, stout, irascible-looking man with a shock of grizzly hair.
For all answer Mr. Whittier handed to Mr. Wheatcroft the thin slip of paper.
No sooner had the junior partner read the paper than he seemed angrier than was usual with him.
"Strange!" he cried. "I should think it was strange! confoundedly strange—and deuced unpleasant, too."
"May I see what it is that's so very strange?" asked Paul, picking up the despatch.
"Of course you may see it," growled Mr. Wheatcroft; "and let us see what you can make of it."
The young man read the message aloud: "Deal off. Can get quarter cent better terms. Carkendale."