"JAMES CARBHOY."
When this message was handed to the impatient operator and he had carefully read it over, the man looked up with what Gordon regarded as an impertinent grin.
His resentment promptly leaped.
"Say," he cried in a threatening tone, "there's some faces made for grinning, and others that couldn't win prizes that way amongst a crowd of fool-faced mules. Guess yours was spoiled for any sort of chance whatever, so cut out trying to make it worse than your parents made it for you. Get me? Just play about on those fool keys and set the tune of that message right, or Mr. James Carbhoy's going to hear things quick."
The threat of the President of the railroad was sufficient to enforce compliance, but Steve Mason was no respector of persons outside that authority, and his retort came glibly.
"You wrote this, Mister, and—you ain't Mr. James Carbhoy," he said, with a sneer and a half-threat.
But Gordon was in no mood for trifling about anything. He was anxious to be off back to the ranch.
"Mr. James Carbhoy is my father," he cried sharply, "and if that don't penetrate your perfectly ridiculous brain-box I'll add that I'm the son of my father—Mr. James Carbhoy. Are you needing anything, or—will you get busy?"
Steve Mason decided to "get busy," and so the message winged its way over the wires.
THE END