“I didn’t say he’d stolen anything,” said Joe.
“I know you didn’t. But, if he had, how much would it have been?”
Joe hesitated. Then, smiling: “About seventy-five dollars,” he said. “But I’d rather you didn’t say anything.”
“I’m dumb. Say, where does he live when he’s at home?”
“I don’t know. He worked in Columbus before he came here.”
“Well, he’s headed straight away from Columbus, hasn’t he? I guess he’s maybe going to Sandusky and take a boat. Still, seventy dollars won’t take him far.” The agent was silent a moment, rapping a pencil thoughtfully on the desk in front of him. Then: “Tell you what I’ll do,” he exclaimed, sitting up with a thump of his chair. “I’ll wire Harris on Fourteen and ask him if the fellow got off at Upper Newton or paid his fare on the train to Fostoria or beyond! How’s that?”
“I wish you would! It’s very kind of you. I suppose I couldn’t catch him if he’s gone on, though.”
“Well, we’ll find out, anyhow.” The agent flicked a time-table to him, ran a finger down a column, glanced at the clock and then began jabbing the telegraph key. “I’ll get Tiverton to give him the message,” he explained as he waited a reply. “Fourteen gets there in seven minutes if she’s on time. Here we are!” The sounder in its little box ticked rapidly and stopped and the agent busied himself again with the key. Joe, who had seated himself in a chair, watched and waited. Presently the agent’s hand left the key and he faced around again.
“Twelve minutes late, he says. I’ve asked Harris to answer from Mittenton. We ought to get a reply in about twenty-five minutes.”
“Is Tiverton beyond Upper Newton?” inquired Joe.