“I say, stranger,” protested the telegraphist, “have you any idea what it costs to send a message across the Continent to New York?”
“No, I haven’t, but I expect to be in possession of that information as soon as you have mastered my handwriting, and counted the words.”
The operator was practically speechless when he reached the end of his enumeration, but after making a note on the pad, he was sufficiently recovered to remark—
“Say, stranger, you’ll have to dig up a pretty big wad to pay for this. We don’t give credit in a Western Union office.”
“I shouldn’t think of asking credit from a downtrodden monopoly,” said Stranleigh, pulling out his pocket book, and liquidating his debt. “You ought to be happy if you get a percentage.”
“Worse luck, I don’t.”
“Well, I think you’re entitled to one. I’ve given a fee this morning and received no particular equivalent for it. Do you, being a useful man, object to accepting a five-dollar bill?”
“Not on your life!” assented the operator with great earnestness.
Stranleigh passed it over.
“I’m expecting a reply. At what time shall I call for it?”