John. And now it's too late!
Fiddler. Yes, sir—oh, beg your pardon, sir—your lawyer left a letter. [John takes letter; opens it and reads it, indifferently at first.
John. [As he opens the letter.] What's he got to say, more than what his wire said?—Eh— [Dumbfounded as he reads.] what?—Will explain.—Error in wording of telegram.—Call me up.— [Turning quickly to the telephone.] The man can't mean that she's still—Hello! Hello! [John listens.
Fiddler. Would like to have a word with you, sir—
John. Hello, Central!
Fiddler. That mare—
John. [Consulting the letter, and speaking into the 'phone.] 33246a 38! Did you get it?
Fiddler. That mare, sir, she's got a touch of malaria—
John. [At the 'phone.] Hello, Central—33246a—38!—Clayton Osgood—yes, yes, and say, Central—get a move on you!
Fiddler. If you think well of it, sir, I'll give her a tonic—