They reached the station and regained the private car. Merriam sank into a wonderful armchair in the sitting room compartment, glanced about him at the luxurious appointments, and lit a cigarette with gusto.
"I shouldn't mind this riches-and-fame business for quite a while," he thought. (Mollie June was for the time forgotten; thus it is with the fickle male.)
Rockwell had sat down in the next chair. Merriam made an effort of memory.
"East St. Louis next?" he asked.
"Yes," said Rockwell. "We'll have to get at the speech as soon as the train starts."
Just then a small but vociferous urchin appeared in the door of the car. His cap proclaimed him a telegraph messenger.
"Telegram for Mr. Rockwell!" he shouted, as though Mr. Rockwell were probably in the next county.
Rockwell signed the book, and the lad slowly withdrew himself, taking generous eyefuls of Rockwell, "Senator Norman," and the private car. As he lingered with a last backward stare in the doorway, Merriam winked at him, and the boy grinned and generously, democratically winked back.
Turning from that wink to Rockwell, Merriam was startled. The man sat limp with the telegram on his knee and a pencil in his hand. I will not say he was pale, but certainly he was haggard.
He handed the telegram to Merriam.