“Know me, ’eh, in spite of my week’s growth of whiskers and my attempt to look like a hobo. Well, you’re right, old boy. I’m the absconding bank cashier, and the bonds are right here inside the lining of my coat. You better take them and return them to the bank for me, will you? And if there’s any reward you take it. I played in good luck up until to-night. I’ve been hiding right under the nose of the police and newspaper reporters in New City for a month. Why I chose to-night to try and get away I don’t know, and why I decided to ride the bumpers of that particular fast freight I can’t guess. I suppose it’s one of Fate’s little jokers. Let me go just so far and then—bing, and it’s all off. I won’t be alive in twenty-four hours from now, boy. I think a rib or two has punctured my lungs, so I want you to have all the glory of returning the bonds and telling the story. I—”
Jeff jumped down from the bunk with a start. Now he knew what the urgent thing was he had to do. Find a telephone and call up Boss Russell.
“Wait a while. I’ll be back. Got to find a ’phone and get this all in to the Freeman,” he said to Hammond. Then, finding his overcoat which had been thrown over him as he lay in the bunk, he slipped into it and hurried out of the deserted caboose.
The first person he met was Tracy, the conductor of the wrecked freight.
“There’s a signal tower about a mile down the track. That’s where I telephoned about the wreck from,” he answered to Jeff’s query and Jeff, fatigue forgotten, started on a run down the track toward the blinking red and green light which he knew was the tower.
“Where in time have you been? It’s three o’clock and the first edition is on the press,” roared Boss Russell when he recognized Jeff’s voice over the telephone.
“I—I—why—” and then Jeff told him everything in a wild burst of language.
“Great guns! You don’t mean it. Wait—wait till I stop the presses. Here, you give that dope to Sullivan, the rewrite man. He’ll put it in type. What?”
“Why—why—Aw say, Boss, can’t I write the story?” asked Jeff.
“Write the story! Why, boy, that story will be in type and on the street before you get started back from the wreck. You write the yarn about the three-legged calf if you have time, but stick on the job at the wreck there and come home with the crew. And to-morrow night I’ll give you the choice of any assignment you want. That’s a good kid. Good-night.”