“That’s all right, I’ll sign for the telegram,” said Bob. “My name is Houston and I’m in lower five, car 43.”
The agent looked suspiciously at him as though he had not expected anyone as youthful looking as Bob.
“I’ve got instructions to see a certain badge before I turn over this message,” he said.
Bob reached into his inner coat pocket, drew forth his billfold, and produced the badge.
“That’s right,” nodded the agent. “Sign this slip.”
He produced a pencil and Bob, writing in the light from the headlight, signed his name.
“Thanks,” said the agent. Then he turned to the conductor. “All right. Now you can tell that hoghead up there to pick up his wheels and get the string of varnished gondolas out of here. I want to go to sleep.”
The conductor snorted, but he was too anxious to get back to his train to make a reply.
The vestibule of the forward coach had been opened by the brakeman. They climbed aboard and the engineer whistled off the moment they were on the train.
Bob looked at the damp envelope in his hands and suddenly he felt himself shaking slightly. For some reason the Southern Limited had been stopped at a lonely railroad outpost to deliver this message to him. That it was important there could be no doubt for he had been forced to identify himself before he could obtain the message.