Part 32 (1/2)

HARBORAGE

Less than a mile down the track, Prince came to the tiny signal house for which he had been looking. The door was locked, and so numb and clumsy were his fingers that he found it hard to force it open. Once on the inside, he felt that the struggle was nearly over. This was the end. Using the railway's private phone, he astonished the telegraph operator in Fort Morgan by cutting in on him and asking him to run across to the nearest garage with a call for a service car.

For a long moment the operator was speechless. Did you ever hear of insolence like that? He told Prince to get off that wire and keep his hands away from railway property or he would land in the pen. Then he went back to his work. But Prince cut in on him again. Finally the operator referred him to the station master and gave him the connection. But the station master refused to meddle with any such irregular business. This was against the law, and station masters are strong for law and order. But Prince was persistent. At last, in despair, they connected him with the district superintendent.

”Who in thunder are you, and what do you want?” asked the superintendent in no gentle voice.

”I want some of those sap-heads of yours in Fort Morgan to take a message to the garage, and they won't do it,” yelled Prince.

”Say, what do you think this is? A philanthropic messenger service?”

e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the superintendent.

”I haven't got time to talk,” cried Prince. ”I've got to get at a garage, and quickly.”

”Well, we don't run a garage.”

”Shut up a minute and listen, will you? There is a woman out here on the track, half frozen. We are twenty miles from a house. Will you send that message or not? The woman can't live two hours.”

”Well, why didn't you tell what was the matter? I will connect you with the operator at Fort Morgan and tell him to do whatever you say.

You stay on the wire until he reports they have a car started.”

So Prince was flung back to the operator at Fort Morgan, and that high-souled scion of the railway was sent out like a common delivery boy to take a message. Prince waited in an agony of suspense for the report from the garage. It was not favorable. No man in town would go out on a wild goose chase into the plains on a night like that.

Awfully sorry, nothing doing.

”Take a gun and make them come,” said Prince, between set teeth.

”I'm not looking for trouble. Your woman would freeze before they got there anyhow.”

”Send the sheriff,” begged Prince.

”He couldn't get out there a night like this in time to do you any good.”

This was literally true. For a second Prince was silent.

”Anything else?” asked the operator. ”Want me to run out and get you a cigar, or a bottle of perfume, or anything?”

”Then there is just one thing to do,” said Prince abruptly. ”I'll have to flag the first train and get her aboard.”

”What! You can't do it. You don't dare do it. It is against the law to flag a train on private business.”

”I know it. So I am asking you to make it the railroad's business. I am warning you in advance. Where are the fuses?”

The operator helplessly called up the superintendent once more.

”What the d.i.c.kens do you want now?”

”It's that nut on the line,” explained the operator. ”He wants something else.”

”Yes, I want to know where the fuses are so I can flag the first train that comes. Or I will just set the tool house afire; that will stop them.”