Alex called the chief. “Mr. Allen, that ‘ghost,’ or whatever it is—”
Once more the instruments broke out in an almost inarticulate whirr, and with difficulty together they picked out the words: “... sounds in the next room ... yelling and groaning just other side partition ... whispering at me through a knot-hole ... an eye looking at me ... stand it any longer ... right now! G. B. (Good-by)!”
Grasping the key, the chief sent quickly, “Look here! Wait a moment! You there?”
There was no response. Again he called, and gave it up. “No use. He’s off like the rest of them. Well, I’m not sure I blame him. There must be something wrong. But it beats me!”
As he was about to move away the chief turned back and handed Alex a letter. “I overlooked giving it to you when you came in,” he explained.
“From Jack Orr!” said Alex with pleasure. A moment later he uttered a second exclamation, again read a paragraph, and with a delighted “The very thing!” hastened after the chief.
“Mr. Allen, this letter is from a friend of mine, a first class commercial operator, who wants to get into railroad telegraphing, and who would be just the man to send to MJ.
“He is a regular amateur detective, and has all kinds of pluck,” Alex went on, and in a few words recounted Jack’s clearing up of the cash-box mystery at Hammerton, the part he played in the breaking up of the band of Black-Handers, and his resourcefulness when the wires were cut at Oakton.
The chief smiled and reached for a message blank. “Thank you, Ward,” he said. “That’s the man we want exactly. How soon can he come?”
“He says he could take a place with us right away, sir.”