In front of the Western Union Telegraph Company's office, Old Spicer gave the signal to stop; and, springing from the cab, he rushed into the office, scratched thirteen words on a blank, and, handing it to the operator, said:
"Get that off at once. It's on a matter of life and death."
The operator took the dispatch, and this is what he read:
"Adam Killett, 300 Mulberry Street, New York:
"Meet me at Grand Central depot on arrival of four-eleven morning train.
"Spicer."
"All right, sir," said the operator, "it shall go this minute."
"And mind!" said Old Spicer, "if he isn't at the office, as it's hardly likely he will be at this hour, have it taken to him wherever he may be; understand?"
"All right, sir; but I shall have to charge for sending the instructions."
"Charge what you have a mind to, but see to it that Mr. Killett gets that dispatch, that's all I care about it."
"He shall surely get it, sir."
"Thanks. It will greatly oblige me. Good-night," and hurrying from the office, he leaped into the cab, and calling out "Home Place," sank into his corner, and never spoke again till they arrived before his door.