“I think their wire is down,” came the answer. “I’ll give you ‘information.’”
“Information,” or the young lady in the telephone office who held that title answered promptly. Dorothy made known her need—to reach the Cedars, North Birchland.
“Wire’s down from the wind,” replied the telephone girl.
Dorothy almost jerked the receiver off its cord—she dropped it so suddenly.
“Isn’t that awful?” she exclaimed, with a very white face.
“Can’t get your party?” asked the constable, coolly.
“No,” she answered, “Could I telephone the depot to send a telegram?”
“Nope,” replied the man designated as “Cap.” “They can’t collect charges over the telephone.”
“But I could send the message collect,” argued Dorothy, feeling her courage slip away now with each new difficulty.
“They only send them that way when they happen to know who you are,” replied the man in an insolent tone, “and it ain’t likely they know a parcel of boarding-school girls.”