“Nice, long message, eh?” queried Brigham, slapping Glennie on the back. “Plenty of useless words, but what does the captain of the Seminole care? Uncle Sam stands the cable toll, and, besides, on grave matters it is well to be explicit. Hang a few extra dollars, anyway. Where’s the dispatches?”
Glennie imagined how he would have felt if he had been obliged to report, in view of that cablegram, that his dispatches had been lost and not recovered.
“I want to tell you something about those dispatches before you read them, Mr. Brigham,” said the ensign.
“Well, sit down, my lads. What’s the good word, ensign?”
Thereupon Glennie told the whole story connected with the loss of the dispatches and their final recovery. Everything went in, and a half hour was consumed in the telling. More than once Brigham whistled and puckered his brows ominously. But he was absorbed in the narrative. When it was done, he reached his hand toward Bob.
“Pardon me, youngster,” said he, “but I never miss a chance to shake hands with a live one. Possibly it’s because I’ve lived so long in this dead place, where you can’t turn around without having some sluggard tell you ‘mañana.’ You’re the clear quill, and I’ll gamble you’ll get along. If I was younger, blamed if I wouldn’t like to trot a heat with you myself.”
Bob, flushing under the compliment given him by the consul, allowed his hand to be wrung cordially.
“Now,” said Brigham, “look out of the windows at the beautiful palms while I go through these papers.”
The consul was all of half an hour getting the gist of his dispatches.