"Team gone to pieces. Drop everything. Come."
If one had looked over the shoulder of the telegraph operator, he would have seen that every address was that of some man who in his time had been famous the country over for his prowess on the gridiron, and who on many a glorious field had worn the colors of the Blues.
One of them was delivered in the private office of a great business concern in Chicago. Mr. Thomas Ames, the president—better known in earlier and less dignified days as "Butch"—turned from the mass of papers on his desk and opened it. His eyes lighted up as he read it and saw the signature. Then the light faded.
"Swell chance," he muttered, "with this big deal on."
He turned reluctantly to his desk. Then he read the telegram again. Then he sighed and bit viciously at the end of his cigar.
"Nonsense," he growled. "There's no use being a fool. I simply can't, and that's all there is to it."
He crushed the telegram in his hand and threw it into the waste basket.
Ten minutes later he fished it out. He smoothed out the wrinkles and smiled as he noted the imperious form of the message. He was more accustomed to giving orders than obeying them, and the change had in it something piquant.
"Just like 'Bull,'" he grinned. "Arrogant old rascal. Doesn't even ask me. Just says 'come.'"
"Off his trolley this time though," he frowned. "Nothing doing."