That evening they had a jolly reunion, in which the cow-punchers took a prominent part. The telephone between Lone Pine, Circle T and Border City was used very often, and many voices were sent over the wire. It had the pleasing effect of seeming to bring them and their friends, so far separated by the lonely, darkened prairie, close together.
The dirigible got back to town safe and sound.
“Isn’t it fine!” cried Bob. The receiver was against his ear. “Willie’s at the ’phone.”
“Say, Somers,” he heard, “the Major thinks a whole lot of you fellows. Wasn’t it awful odd how that little red book changed things for me? But for it I might be at Lone Pine now, scrapping with old Doc Cliffy. He’s a good chap, all right. But, look here, air-skimmers are certainly not in it with balloons.”
CHAPTER XXV
THE VISITORS
The inhabitants of Border City and the cow-punchers and sheep raisers who occasionally visited it had perhaps never dreamed that there was destined to spring up in town a building of such elegance and such arrangements for comfort as the Carroll Inn.
Hot, dusty and generally silent, Border City, apparently dropped on the prairie floor with no more regard for its general plan than if it had been a scattered heap of chips, had become mildly famous, and the Carroll Inn was worthy of its newly-acquired celebrity.
Since the advent of Major Warfield Carroll, a trifling inattention on the part of the people to the science of government had been corrected. Border City had elected a mayor—the principal street was named after him; there were also a number of councilmen, a magistrate, and a police force large enough to afford protection to the town. There were even two full-fledged political parties, each with its “boss.”
Early on the morning following their return, Major Carroll sat in his private room, where Willie was poring over a book on mechanics.
A sharp knock sounded at the door. The lad immediately answered it, and a telegram was handed in.