“Have you a telegram for Philip Vernon?” said I.
“Yes, sir,” said he, dismounting and pulling the telegram out of his side pocket. “I was just go’n’ up to your place.”
“Saved me a dollar, didn’t it?” said I.
“Yes, sir, and lost me ten cents.”
“Here’s the ten cents,” said I, as I signed for the telegram.
“It’s collect, sir,” said he; “forty-five cents.” I paid him and I opened the envelope.
“All missed confounded train. Be good to Hepburn if he caught it. Will come on next train. Wait for us. Tom.”
A most characteristic telegram in every way. It’s superfluity of expression, its thought of Hepburn and its command to wait, were all as like Tom Warden as they could be.
“There’s nothing to do but wait,” said I when I had shown the telegram to the others.
“The dinner will be spoiled,” said Ethel ruefully.