“Fifteen thousand feet—three miles!” The young man stood a moment, then turned and walked soberly away.
It was early the next morning that Young Van recalled Jack Flagg’s communication, which he still had in his pocket. He saw that the chief was about starting off for his breakfast, and called him back and gave him the paper. Carhart read it, smiled rather contemptuously, and handed it back.
“That man,” he said, “was just about big enough to stir up a little trouble in the camp. I’m glad we’re through with him.”
“I wish I was sure we were,” replied Young Van.
“Hello! you’re right, Gus. Here he is again.”
Charlie was approaching with another dirty paper in his hand. “I didn’t think anybody could get in last night, Mr. Carhart,” he said ruefully, “but—here is what they left.”
The chief took this second paper and read it aloud:—
My dear Mr. Carhart: My shooting’s getting bum. Better luck next time.
Jack Flagg.
“Flagg ought to be on the stage,” he said when he had tossed the paper away. “He is the sort of man that can’t get along without an audience.”