"Tell the stable boss to hitch up the light rig and bring it to the office."
As the man left the room, Hartwell seated himself and lighted a cigar. In a few moments the rig was at the door and Hartwell appeared, leisurely drawing on a pair of driving-gloves. Adjusting the dust-robe over his knees, as he took the lines from the man, he said:
"If Mr. Firmstone inquires for me tell him I have gone for a drive."
Down past the mill, along the trail by the slide, he drove with no appearance of haste. Around a bend which hid the mill from sight, the horses had a rude awakening. The cigar was thrown aside, the reins tightened, and the whip was cracked in a manner that left no doubt in the horses' minds as to the desires of their driver.
In an hour, foaming and panting, they were pulled up at the station. Hitching was really an unnecessary precaution, for a rest was a thing to be desired; but hitched they were, and Hartwell hurried into the dingy office.
The operator was leaning back in his chair, his feet beside his clicking instrument, a soothing pipe perfuming the atmosphere of placid dreams.
"I want to get off a message at once." Hartwell was standing before the window.
The operator's placid dreams assumed an added charm by comparison with the perturbed Hartwell.
"You're too late, governor." He slowly raised his eyes, letting them rest on Hartwell.
"Too late!" Hartwell repeated, dazedly.