On the Iron at Big Cloud

by Frank L. Packard

MacDonald buried his face in his cup, ostensibly to drain the last drop, then he set it down quickly and jerked his watch from his pocket.

“Holy Moses!” he ejaculated, and fled from the room.

An hour later, as Thornley was again sitting with his feet on MacDonald’s desk, Dutchy stuck his head into the room and beckoned to the dispatcher. MacDonald walked across the floor and joined him. Dutchy pulled him out of the room and closed the door.

“Dere iss one thing dot I forgotted did,” announced Mr. Damrosch.

“What’s that?” inquired MacDonald.

“Dere iss five doughnuts dot iss paid for not.”

“Oh!” said MacDonald.

“Dot vas der time you told dot it vas Thornley—yess? Dot vas von dollar py each. Veil, I vant dot—yess?”

“Really!” laughed MacDonald. “Well, I guess not!”

“Dot—vas—der—time”—Dutchy was raising his voice, each word growing louder and more distinct than the preceding one. Thornley’s chair inside creaked ominously. MacDonald glanced furtively toward the door, and his face grew red—“you—told—dot——”