Mike Costigan, the telegraph messenger, and Hank Jackson, the ex-champion of the Dean County Nine, were the greatest trials which the long-suffering lady at the telegraph desk had to endure. Mike had put his whole soul, which was large for his small body, into the base ball championship, and he was ready to weep if the Catalpas should not return with what he called "the skelps of them Chicago fellers" at their belts. As for Hank, he pretended to be in momentary expectation of a telegraphic despatch. As early as nine o' clock in the morning, he had begun to haunt the telegraph office and demand a message that did not come. Mike was sure that Jackson would have early news from the seat of war, and, wisely fearing Hank's heavy hand and rough tongue, he followed him at a respectful distance, waiting to hear something to encourage his fond hopes of the Catalpa club.
The lad had been hurrying out with a message to Heaton's flouring mills, and he bounced up the stairs of the telegraph office, three at a time, and flew into the room where the hard-worked operator was rattling at the instrument. A swift look from Mike took in the whole situation. Henry Jackson was seated on a bench in a corner of the office, with his back to the door, puzzling over a little book and a telegraphic despatch. He inspected the pages of the book, then scanned the message, and then, licking the end of a lead-pencil, wrote something on the paper containing the despatch.
"Here, hurry with this message, Mike," said the lady in the office, "and be quick about it; you are always loitering about the corner when you are wanted."
Almost wild at being sent out before he could get an opportunity to extract a bit of news from Hank Jackson, Mike flew out on his errand, astonished the receiver of the message by telling him to hurry up with his signature, and then went back to the office on the wings of the wind. Alas! when Mike re-entered the room, breathless and hot, Hank had departed without leaving any trace of the quality of the news that he might have received. No, not quite so bad as that, thought Mike, as he ruefully surveyed the empty bench, for there in a corner, tossed under the bench on which Henry had been sitting, was a wad of crumpled paper which the boy's experienced eyes told him was from the telegraph company's stores of stationery.
Pouncing upon the ragged ball with the hunger of a small boy in pursuit of information concerning a base ball match, Mike drew forth a "receiving blank," torn and crumpled, on which was written an incomprehensible message. Kneeling on the floor, his stubby hands shaking with excitement, Mike smoothed out the torn despatch, joining the two larger fragments so as to get the meaning of the words. And this, after some botheration, was what was revealed to Mike's distended eyes:—
Get all the bet you can against Catalpas they lose game sure
"Gosh all hemlock!" this was Mike's extreme of profanity, "if Ben Burton hasn't gone and sold the game!" The lad, who was shrewd beyond his years, carefully put the pieces of paper inside of his jacket, buttoned it up tightly, and, after ascertaining that no message was coming over the wires, and that he might decamp without fear, bolted out of the office, threw himself downstairs, and darted into Dr. Selby's shop like a shot.
"MIKE SMOOTHED OUT THE TORN DESPATCH."—Page 178.