As soon as the shadows hid the young man’s retreating form from the Swede’s watchful eye, that individual quickened his pace and presently broke into a run. Circling round a few blocks and regaining the main street a little below the hotel, he entered the telegraph office. There his haste seemed to leave him. He stood watching the clerk a few minutes, but the latter paid no attention to him.
“Hullo!” he said at last.
“Hallo, yourself!” said the boy, without looking up or taking his hand from the steadily clicking instrument.
“Say, I lak it you send me somet’ing by telegraph.”
“All right. Hold on a minute,” and the instrument clicked on.
After a little the Swede grew impatient. He scratched his pale gold head and shuffled his feet.
“Say, I lak it you send me a little somet’ing yet.” He reached out and touched the boy on the shoulder.
“Keep out of here. I’ll send your message when I’m through with this,” and the instrument clicked on. Then the Swede resigned himself, watching sullenly.
“Everybody has to take his turn,” said the boy at last. “You can’t cut in like that.” The boy was newly promoted and felt his importance. He took the soiled scrap of paper 343 held out to him. It was written over in a clear, bold hand. “This isn’t signed. Who sends this?”
“You make it yust lak it iss. I send dot.”