It certainly was a long speech for a sick boy as Mrs. Stark persisted in considering him; and it left her shaken and most undecided on various points. Upon one, however, she was fully set; she would cut this Nova Scotia trip short at once. She would telegraph her husband in Boston and follow her telegram, bag and baggage, by that afternoon’s train. With this resolve in mind she left the room; merely bidding her son “lie still till I come back.”
Then she descended to the hotel office and called for a telegraph blank.
This was courteously provided; also pen and ink with which to inscribe it, which she promptly did, then the following dialogue:—
“Please send this message at once, clerk.”
“Sorry, Madam, but I can’t do it. Not to-day.”
“Why not?” haughtily.
“Office is closed. No despatches sent on Sunday. Can do it about seven a. m. Monday.”
“You mean to tell me that ridiculous stuff? Where is the office? If this second-rate hotel can’t accommodate its patrons I’ll take it myself.”
“The office is at the railway station, Madam. You will find it closed.”
“Indeed? Well, when does the first train start for Yarmouth and a steamer for the States, either Boston or New York?”