As the train drew up at the station, Frank Merriwell, an alligator skin grip in his hand, swung down from the steps.
He was quite alone, and he looked dusty and tired, but there was a determined expression on his face.
“Is there a telegraph office in the station?” he asked, speaking to a small boy who was looking at him curiously.
“Sure,” answered the urchin, promptly. “Feller that looks after it’s seein’ to the freight now, though. He’ll go in soon’s the train leaves.”
“Where is he?”
“Right over there.”
The boy pointed out the operator, and Frank gave him a quarter. The urchin stared at the piece of silver with bulging eyes, forgetting, in his astonishment, to even say thank you.
“Crickey!” he finally gasped. “That chap must have money to throw at ther birds!”
Then he scudded away to spend the quarter at the nearest store.