Vance had it before his employer in a twinkling.
“Your notes, please,” said the operator, after he had studied the report for several minutes.
The boy laid them before him.
“Put the pamphlets down there. Now, take the evening paper and go over there by the window and sit down.”
Vance did so, and there was perfect silence in the room for the next half hour, when it was broken by a knock on the door.
“See who that is,” almost snapped Whitemore, jerking his thumb in the direction of the entrance.
Vance found a telegraph boy outside, signed for the yellow envelope and brought it to his employer.
Two more dispatches arrived before the little marble clock on the mantel chimed the hour of nine.
Another half hour of almost perfect silence ensued, during which two more cigar stumps were added to the collection on the dish; and Vance was beginning to wonder why he was being held there by Mr. Whitemore, when the operator rose from his seat, mopped his forehead with his familiar bandana handkerchief and then sat down again.
“Vance.”