Tom pushed his way gently through the crowd, glancing inside the station. There was no one there, save an operator. Closing the door behind him, Tom crossed to a seat and sank wearily upon it.
Here he sat for some minutes, to be discovered by the telegraph operator when the latter came out to light the lamps in the waiting room.
“Mr. Reade is all in, I guess,” thought the operator. “I don’t wonder. I hope he goes to sleep where he sits.”
Ten minutes later the receiver of one of the up the terminal station. The operator broke in, sending back his response. Then a telegram came, which he penned on paper.
“Mr. Reade,” called the operator, “this is for you.”
Tom sat up, brushing his eyes, and read:
“If you can spare time wish you would ride down track to point about two miles west of Miller’s where brook crosses under roadbed. Have something to show you that will interest you. Nothing serious, but will fill you with wonder. My men all along line report all safe and going well. Come at once.” (signed) “Dave Fulsbee.”
Tom’s first instinct was to start and tremble. He felt sure that Fulsbee had bad news and was trying to conceal the fact until he could see the young chief engineer in person.
“But that’s really not Dave’s way,” Reade told himself in the next breath. “Fulsbee talks straight out from the shoulder. What has he to show me, I wonder! Gracious, how tired I am! If Fulsbee knew just how I feel at this moment he wouldn’t send for me. But of course he doesn’t know.”
Stepping outside, Tom looked about, espying his pony standing where it had been tied to one of the porch pillars of the station.