His naturally red face was redder than usual, and he breathed fast, when he stepped up to the little window.
"I have a message that I wish to go over the wires as fast as lightning," was his announcement, after raising his cap and saluting the young lady.
"That's the way all telegrams go," she replied, looking smilingly up from her chair in front of the instrument.
"Thank ye kindly."
"All you have to do is to write it out and pay the cost."
"And how much will the same be?"
"That depends on the number of words and the distance it has to be sent. Write it out."
A pile of yellow blanks lay on the inclined planed board which served as a desk, and there was a cheap pencil secured by a string, but no chair. A sender had to stand while writing his message. Mike tried to act as if he was used to such things. First he thrust the end of the pencil in his mouth to moisten the lead and began his hard task.
He was so long at it that the bright young miss looked up several times to see how he was getting on. Through the narrow window she saw him laboring harder than he had ever labored in his life. His tongue was out, his eyes rolling, his cap shoved back from his perspiring forehead and he grunted, standing first on one foot and then on the other, crossing out words, writing them over again and scratching his head in sore perplexity. She made no comment, but busied herself with other work until more than a quarter of an hour had passed.
Finally the toil was over and he shoved the little sheet of paper through the window.