“I’m going to see, anyway,” she answered.
In the station she found Joe Follansbee in his little office. The telegraphic sounder was clicking away, with queer sudden interruptions, in the manner that is so mysterious to the uninitiated.
“Are you busy, Joe?” she asked him, graciously.
“Sure thing!” answered the young fellow, grinning pleasantly. “There’s the usual stuff. The 4.19 is two hours late, and I’ve had one whole private message. Gettin’ to be a busy place, Carcajou is.”
“Who’s getting messages? Old man Symonds at the mill?”
“Ye’ll have to guess again. It’s a wire all the way from New York.”
“What was it about, Joe?” she asked, in her very sweetest manner.
Indeed, the inflection of her voice held something in it that was nearly caressing. Kid Follansbee had long admired her, but of late he had been quite hopeless. He had observed the favor in which Ennis had seemed to stand before the girl, and had perhaps been rather jealous. It was pleasant to be spoken to so agreeably now.
“We ain’t supposed to tell,” he informed her, apologetically. “It’s against the rules. Private messages ain’t supposed to be told to anyone.”