In all this time, although I had written to Jo about the loss of the horruck and my ignorance of its secret and my growing curiosity, no word of her had come to me save a letter from Sam, which told me that Jo was well and hoped those few lines would find me the same.
One afternoon my call came clicking into the sounder with the letters M. F. behind it. I knew that M. F. stood for the office at Merrifield.
The operator said that he would have an important message for me at eight that evening, and, asked if I could be at the key to take it. The request was not unusual, for mine was the repeating office at the junction of two lines. I promised to be on hand, and went to the office at eight o'clock.
Soon I got the call and answered it, and these words flashed into the sounder:
“Is this Mr. Heron?”
And I answered, “Yes; who are you?”
“I am the operator at Merrifield, and I have a message for you.”
“Well, go ahead,” I clicked, impatiently. I could see it was a new operator with a rather timid hand. So the message ran:
To Jacob Ezra Heron:
Do you still care to hear from an old friend?