THAYER.
It was the same telegram that Barry Houston had received and puzzled over in Boston, except for the address. He had been right then; the message had not been for him; instead it had been intended decidedly not for him and it meant—what? Hastily Houston crawled over the railing, and motioning to Ba'tiste, led him away from the station. Around the corner of the last store he brought forth his telegram and placed it in the big man's hands.
"That's addressed to me,—but it should have gone to some one else. Who's J. C. Blackburn of Chicago?"
"Ba'teese don't know. Try fin' out. Why?"
"Have you read that message?"
The giant traced out the words, almost indecipherable in places from creasing and handling. He looked up sharply.
"Boston? You came from Boston?"
"Yes. That must refer to me. It must mean what I've been suspecting all along,—that Thayer's been running my mill down, to help along some competitor. You'll notice that he says he has me where he wants me."
"Oui—yes. But has he? What was the deal?"
"I don't know. I haven't been in any deal that I know of, yet he must refer to me. I haven't any idea what he means by the reference to starting operations, or that sentence about the 'big thing.' There isn't another mill around here?"