"Don't you worry none about me," said Nulty, and his jaw shot out. "I'm able to take care of myself."
"Oh, well," said P. Walton, "I'm just warning you, that's all. Anyway, there isn't any immediate need for worry. I guess you're safe enough—so long as you stay in bed."
The next day P. Walton worked assiduously at the office. If excitement or nervousness in regard to the events of the night that was to come was in any wise his portion, he did not show it. There was not a quiver in the steel-plate hand in which he wrote the super's letters, not even an inadvertent blur on the tissue pages of the book in which he copied them. Only, perhaps, he worked a little more slowly—his work wasn't done when the shop whistle blew and he came back to the office after supper. It was close on ten minutes after eight when he finally finished, and went into the despatcher's room with the sheaf of official telegrams to go East during the night at odd moments when the wires were light.
"Here's the super's stuff," he said, laying the papers on the despatcher's desk.
"All right," said Spence, who was sitting in on the early trick. "How's P. Walton to-night?"
"Pretty fair," said P. Walton, with a smile. "How's everything moving?"
"Slick as clockwork," Spence answered. "Everything on the dot. I'll get some of that stuff off for you now."
"Good," said P. Walton, moving toward the door. "Good-night, Spence."
"'Night, old man," rejoined Spence, and picking up the first of the super's telegrams began to rattle a call on his key like the tattoo of a snare drum.
P. Walton, in possession of the information he sought—that Extra No. 34 was on time—descended the stairs to the platform, and started uptown.