“I’ve just been up to see Mr. Ricketts, whom I think you mentioned the other day.”
“So I supposed,” agreed Dean.
“I expected to get some information from him about Mr. Armstrong, but he doesn’t appear to know very much.”
“Well, you’re the first man I ever heard say that S. A. Ricketts doesn’t know very much, but I think by and by you will find that others know a great deal.”
“Perhaps they know a great deal that is not so; there’s a lot of knowledge of that kind lying around loose.”
“Very likely,” remarked Jim, laconically, then turned on his heel and walked down the street, while Stranleigh went towards the depôt to enlist the services of a telegraph operator, and learn when the next train left for the east.
Stranleigh found the telegraph operator dozing in a wooden chair tilted back against the wall, his soft hat drawn over his eyes, his feet resting on a rung of the chair. It was a hot day, and the commercial inactivity of Bleachers called for very little exertion on the part of the telegraphist. The young man slowly roused himself as the door opened and shut. His unexpected customer nodded good morning to him.
“Could you oblige me with some forms?” asked the newcomer.
“Forms? Forms of what?” The operator’s feet came down with a crash on the board floor as he rose from his chair.
“Well, telegraph blanks, perhaps I should have said.”