“Yes, sir. Something is wrong up here. I’ve got to stay here with my old grandmom that has been here all her life, and I’d like to see somebody beside Bill running things.”
“I picked you yesterday, from something you said,” Mr. Tudor continued. “I am taking quite a risk to tell anyone that I have a quest here, but I shall need someone, and I happened to find that I need you right away. I made this appointment with you not knowing that I should have to send this telegram, but I hoped to secure your services. I did expect to enjoy a little fishing, but I suppose that I shall have to keep up my writing a while, to give you the excuse of bringing fish to me every day. Tell Bill that the writing chap has ordered fish, shrimp, lobster, anything that you get particularly fine and every day. I mean to write, too,—but not all the time.”
This mystery appealed to Tom, whose eyes sparkled. “You can count on me, sir. Prob’ly Bill will charge you fancy prices, though.”
“That is all right, and I’ll pay you, too. It’s going faster than I thought. Sure you can carry it off so that Bill will not suspect? It’s all right for you to show an interest in me, of course.”
“I’ve kept more than one thing from Bill already, sir.”
“Don’t forget, then.”
Tom carried the telegram into the station with an air of great indifference, as he happened to see a man who worked for Bill, in fact one of Bill’s chief henchmen, on the platform.
“H’lo, Tom. Wot’e ye doin’ here?”
“What ye doin’ yourself?” Tom was grinning. Perhaps it would do no harm to let the man see the telegram. It would be better at any rate than to make any mystery over it. He went right ahead about the business of sending off the message, making out the blank and stuffing the original paper, scribbled by Evan Tudor, into his pocket.
But the man was waiting curiously at the door. Tom hoped that it was mere curiosity that moved him. “Wot’s the matter? Any of yer folks sick?”