Ben Watkins ridiculed the precaution thus taken, and in answer to a question from Myles declared that he did not believe there would be any strike, in spite of all the talk. The lieutenant agreed with him, and, caressing his silky little mustache, said, with an absurdly pompous tone, that the mere presence of himself and his men was sufficient to prevent any such thing.
After supper Ben, who had displayed an unusual friendliness toward Myles ever since their meeting, asked him how he intended to spend the evening.
“I must go out and find the telegraph office,” replied Myles, “and make arrangements to have my dispatches sent through promptly. Then I thought I would look about the town a little.”
“Oh, well,” said Ben, “that won’t take you long, and when you come back you’d better drop into my room, No. 16. There isn’t any thing to do of an evening in this beastly place, but a few of us generally manage to put in the time somehow, and perhaps we can make it pleasant for you. Come and see, at any rate.”
Myles promised he would, and after receiving directions how to reach the telegraph office he went out.
A wickedly cruel expression swept over Ben Watkins’ face as he watched his recent rival out of sight.
“I’ll fix you, my young man. See if I don’t! I haven’t forgotten ‘Lord Steerem’ and the trick you played on me. If I don’t get even with you this very night I will before long. Oh, yes, Ben Watkins doesn’t forget in a hurry.”
Myles, on the other hand, as he walked down the street, was thinking.
“Ben doesn’t seem half a bad fellow, after all. He has decidedly changed for the better since last June, and I shouldn’t wonder if he proved a great help to me in this place.”
He found the telegraph operator to be a brisk, wide-awake young man, who said he was ready to handle any amount of press matter, and who also promised to send word to Myles if any thing important took place during the night.