MYLES MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
THE cruel dispatch to the Phonograph, written for the express purpose of ruining Myles Manning, was the last one to go eastward that night. When the operator—much against his will, for he had taken a fancy to Myles, but compelled by the rules of his office to do so—had sent it flashing over the wires and received an “O. K.” in answer, his hand lay listlessly on the key for a full minute. He was thinking what a mean, contemptible thing had just been done, and was wondering if in any way he could undo it or avert its consequences. Yes, he believed something could be done! At any rate, he would try. The frank, pleasant face of the young reporter rose up before him. A fellow with such a face as that must be all right. He would at least take the responsibility of telling the Phonograph people that he was, and that that last dispatch was false. The key began to click beneath his nimble fingers, but its sound was faint and lifeless. The New York wire would not work. Quickly changing the connections on his switch-board the operator tried again, but with the same result. None of the eastern wires would work. Within that minute of hesitation they had all been cut.
Then a rush of business came in that had to be sent west to Chicago. The Associated Press agent got off a few hundred hurriedly written words announcing the beginning of the great strike. Two or three important private messages were put through, and then the western wires also ceased to work. Mountain Junction was cut off from telegraphic communication with the world.
Outside the office crowds of railroad men filled the streets. Some of them were noisy, others quiet and determined. Some of them uttered loud boasts and threats, others worked with the silent energy of those who have decided upon their plans and mean to carry them through. All trains arriving after midnight were side-tracked. Their locomotives were run into the round-house, where their fires were drawn. Heavy barricades were placed across the main line, the signal-lights were extinguished, and all traffic was effectually stopped.
When, late the next morning, Myles Manning awoke, it was with an aching head and a confused idea of where he was and what had happened to him. The town seemed strangely silent as compared with its noise and bustle of the day before. Could it be Sunday? No, Myles was certain that the preceding day had been Tuesday. What time was it? He pulled out his watch, and as he did so made the discovery that the roll of bills with which he was to have paid his expenses had disappeared. For a moment he thought he had been robbed. Then a dim memory of playing cards and losing money the evening before struggled into his mind, and the cruel nature of his situation began to dawn upon him. What had he done? What had he left undone? In his despair the poor boy sat down on the edge of his bed, and, burying his face in his hands, groaned aloud.
He was aroused by a knock, but before he could reply to it the door opened and Ben Watkins walked in.
“Hello, Manning!” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter? Why aren’t you out gathering in the items of interest that you reporters are always hunting for? There are dead loads of them floating round this place at present, I can tell you.”
“Oh, Ben,” groaned Myles, hoping for a bit of sympathy in his distress, “my money is all gone except a dollar or two in change. I must have lost it at cards in your room last night; but I can’t exactly remember. What shall I do?”
“Do? Why, brace up! You’ll get it all back again next time. I got pretty well cleaned out myself last night, but we’ll get even with that fellow yet. He’s got to stay here until the strike is over, and we’ll have no end of chances at him.”
“The strike!” echoed Myles, to whose thoughts the words gave a new direction. “Has the strike begun?”