“It came while you were gone to dinner, Cap'n,” he said. “Ben Kelley fetched it from the telegraph office himself. He—he said he didn't hardly want to take it to the house. He cal'lated you'd better have it here, to read to yourself, fust. That's what he said—yes, yes—that's what 'twas, Cap'n.”
Slowly Captain Zelotes extended his hand for the envelope. He did not take his eyes from the bookkeeper's face.
“Ben—Ben, he told me what was in it, Cap'n Lote,” faltered Laban. “I—I don't know what to say to you, I don't—no, no.”
Without a word the captain took the envelope from Keeler's fingers, and tore it open. He read the words upon the form within.
Laban leaned forward.
“For the Lord sakes, Lote Snow,” he cried, in a burst of agony, “why couldn't it have been some darn good-for-nothin' like me instead—instead of him? Oh, my God A'mighty, what a world this is! WHAT a world!”
Still Captain Zelotes said nothing. His eyes were fixed upon the yellow sheet of paper on the desk before him. After a long minute he spoke.
“Well,” he said, very slowly, “well, Labe, there goes—there goes Z. Snow and Company.”