“That’s nice,” ticked the sounder. “I thought you would like it.” And then Alex again laughed as his father added, “And now, no tinkering with things, my boy! Remember!”
“OK, Dad. I won’t touch a thing. Good-by.”
It was the following Monday that the “all agents” message was sent over the wire announcing an unusually heavy shipment of gold from the Black Hill Mines, and warning station agents and operators to look out for and report any suspicious persons about their stations. But these messages, usually following hold-ups on other roads, had been intermittently sent for years, and nothing had happened on the Middle Western; and in his turn Alex gave his “OK,” and thought nothing more about it.
A half hour later he sat at the open window of the telegraph room, deeply interested in the July St. Nicholas—so interested, indeed, that he did not hear soft footfalls on the station platform without. The man came quietly nearer—reached the window. Then suddenly Alex glanced up, the magazine fell to the floor, and with a loud cry he sprang to his feet.
He was gazing into the barrel of a revolver, and behind it was a black-masked face!
Hold-up men! The gold train!
Wildly Alex turned toward the telegraph-key. But the man leaned quickly forward, seized him by the shoulder, and threw him heavily back into the chair. “You move again and I’ll shoot!” he said sharply, and Alex sank back helpless.
Yes; hold-up men. And he had betrayed his trust. Betrayed his trust! That thought stood out even above his terror. Oh, if he had only kept a lookout!
