Before his horse had fairly come to a stand-still, he swung himself from the saddle, hurried into the telegraph office, drew a couple of blanks toward him, and, after writing a hasty dispatch upon each, handed them to the operator.
The latter read them with great deliberation, counted the words they contained, and no one would have imagined, by looking at his impassive face, that he had made himself master of a piece of news that was destined to work the most remarkable changes in the lives of some of the characters who are to appear in our story.
Having received pay for the dispatches, the operator seated himself at his instrument and sent them off, while the horseman sprang into his saddle and rode slowly away.
Let us go with these telegrams and see where they went, and how they were received by those to whom they were addressed. They both sped over the same wire until they reached the city of Chicago, and then one turned off and made its way to the little town of Bolton, in Indiana, where we will leave it for the present, while we follow the other, which finally reached its journey’s end in a thriving village in one of our Eastern States.
The operator at the latter place, when he heard his “call” sounded, seated himself at his table with his usual nonchalance; but, before he had written half a dozen words, a surprised and grieved expression settled on his face, and, when the dispatch had been copied, he leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply.
“By George!” he exclaimed aloud.
“What’s the matter?” asked a messenger boy, who stood at his elbow.
“That’s telling,” was the answer. “If you are ever able to run a ticker of your own, you will know that it is against the law to reveal the contents of the messages you receive. Take this up to Mrs. Butler’s, and be quick about it. It is for Bob Howard—all the way from Arizona.”
“By George!” repeated the operator, when the messenger boy was out of hearing. “It’s too bad. It will pretty near kill Bob—and this is his last day at school, and he is going to start for the West to-morrow morning. He’ll go to a desolate home, poor fellow! If I had the money he is heir to, I wouldn’t spend many more hours at this table, I bet you!”
The messenger boy broke into a run as soon as he was out of the office, and presently mounted the steps leading to the door of a modest house in a quiet street.