“(Signed) Jordan, X.”
As “B” gave his “OK” with the stumbling hesitation of blank astonishment, the line again opened. And at the first word the intense strain broke, and Alex sank forward over the table with a convulsive sob.
“Grand, my boy! Grand!” clicked the sounder. It was his father, at Bixton. He had overheard it all.
“Grand! That’s the word,” came the despatcher. “There’s not another operator on the division who would have known enough to do what he did to-day. I guess we won’t bother him any more about his ‘tinkering,’ will we?”
Only half an hour late, the mighty mogul pulling the Overland Limited drew panting to a stop before the little station, and in a moment Alex was surrounded by a crowd of congratulating trainmen and passengers. And when he reappeared after sending the message which notified the despatcher of the train’s safe arrival and of the capture of the two bandits, he was surprised and speechlessly confused by having pressed upon him by the enthusiastic passengers an impromptu purse of seventy-five dollars.
Later in the afternoon Alex was called to the wire by Jack, at Hammerton. “Say, what is all this you’ve gone and done, Al?” clicked Jack enthusiastically. “The afternoon papers here have a whole column story! ‘Please attach statement at once!’”
“Oh, it looks much bigger than it really was,” responded Alex modestly. “And anyway, it came about through my own carelessness. I ought to have been reprimanded, instead of patted on the back.”
“Nonsense! Those hold-up men would have got you, anyway. If you had seen them coming, they would simply have approached in a friendly way, then got the drop on you. You had no gun.