Part 35 (1/2)

”I'm going to give you a lesson in telegraphy and you are going to--”

Iowa saw, and exploded. ”Well, of all the--Say, wot do you think--”

”All right!” Sharply, bravely, though inwardly steeling himself for catastrophe, the lad counted, ”One!--Two!--”

Again he won. ”Oh, go on!” sputtered Iowa, through gritting teeth. And the boy resumed.

”Hit the key a sharp rap! Pretty good. Now, two raps, one right after the other. Good.

”Now, those are what we call 'dots.' Remember. Now, press the key down, hold it for just a moment, and let it come up again. Very good. You would learn telegraphy quickly, Mr. Burns. That is what we call a 'dash.'” With the situation apparently so well in hand, Wilson was beginning almost to enjoy it.

”Now I'll have you do what I've been aiming at. And remember always--my finger is constantly pressing the trigger!”

”Now then, feel just this side of the key b.u.t.ton, below. The little b.u.t.ton of a lever? Got it? Press it from you.”

There was a single sharp upward click of relay and sounder. The key was ”open,” ready for operation.

”Now listen. I want you to make the letter X--a dot, a dash, then two more dots right together. And keep repeating till I stop you.”

Still under the spell of the fancied revolver and the boy's unfaltering gaze, the renegade cowman obeyed, and the telegraph instruments clicked out a painfully deliberate, but fairly readable ”X.”

It was an idle half-hour, and when the despatcher at Exeter heard his call he glanced up from a magazine, listened a moment, and impatiently remarking, ”Some idiot student!” returned to his reading.

But steadily, insistently, the repet.i.tion of X's continued, and at length he reached forward, struck open the key, and demanded, ”Who? Sign!”

Clumsily came the answer, ”B.”

”Bonepile! Now what's happening down there? It doesn't sound like the new operator, either.”

The wire again clicked open, and slowly, in the same heavy hand, the mystified and then amazed despatcher read:

”H-E-L-P--H-E-L-D U-P--A-F-T-E-R G-O-L-D--T-I-E-D T-O T-A-B-L-E--G-O-T D-R-O-P O-N H-I-M--M-A-K-I-N-G H-I-M S-E-N-D--B.”

The despatcher grasped his key. ”Good boy! Good boy!” he hurled back.

”Keep it up for twenty-five minutes and we'll get help to you. There's an extra engine at H, waiting for 92. I'll start her right down.” And therewith he whirled off into an urgent succession of ”H's.”

But through young Jennings' strange feat in telegraphy help was nearer even than the unexpected succor from Hillside. Despite the sleeping draught Burns had administered to Muskoka Jones, the unaccustomed clicking of the telegraph instruments had begun to arouse the big cowman.

When finally, in climax, came the lightning whirr of the despatcher's excited response, he gasped into consciousness, blinked, and suddenly found himself sitting upright, staring open-mouthed at the spectacle before him.

The next moment, with a shout, he was on his feet in the middle of the floor, and the nerve-strung boy had fainted.

As the lad sank forward his ”pistol” fell from his hand and rolled into the light.

From Burns came an inarticulate cry, his jaw dropped, his eyes started in his head. Muskoka halted in his stride, wet his lips and muttered incredulous words of admiration and amazement. Then in a moment he had cut Wilson free, and stretched him on the floor.

It was Iowa broke the silence. Rising, with compressed lips he held toward Muskoka the b.u.t.t of his pistol. ”Here, shoot me--with my own gun!”

he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”I deserve it.”