“The one you’re looking for, I reckon—Colonel Robert Rocket.”
“Say, kin you read, boss?” demands the boy, a sharp-faced chap.
“Well, yes, a little,” returns the other, frowning, for he is impatient to receive his own.
“Then just cast your eyes on that 'ere enwelope, from a distance like, an’ tell me if you kin make Bob Rocket or Davy Crockett or any other firework show out o’ it.”
Plainly he reads the name of Samson Cereal, and the address below.
“The devil! I made a mistake. Boy, follow the nigger. It aint for me—yet!” And the sheriff falls back out of the way, a little ruffled, but still on deck.
Aleck has heard it all.
He knows that while relieved from one source of anxiety, another has shown its head. What reception will the great speculator give this message? True, he must often receive telegrams on many important subjects, but a man of his firmness would not show this intense anxiety over a matter unless it was of the utmost moment.
Naturally, therefore, Aleck, being decidedly interested, moves in the direction of the big operator.
By this time Samson Cereal has caught sight of the colored door-keeper leading the sagacious messenger boy to his quarter. The latter takes it all as a matter of course. There can be seen no trace of amazement on his face, though the decoration of the rooms is superb, and the toilets of the ladies charming. One of these imps would strut through the palace of a Czar with the indifference of a princeling to the manner born.