XIX
THE FOOLISH WIRES
When President Vennor returned to his stateroom in the private car afterthe choleric little incident on the platform, he found his secretarywaiting with open note-book and a sheaf of well-sharpened pencils.Quatremain's hands were a trifle unsteady when he began to write at thePresident's dictation, but his employer did not observe it. As a matterof fact, Mr. Francis Vennor was deep in the undercurrent of his privatethoughts--thoughts which were quite separate and apart from the unbrokenflow of words trickling out through Quatremain's pencil-point upon thepages of the note-book. Mere business was very much a matter of habitwith the President, and the dictating of a few letters to be signed"Francis Vennor, President," did not interfere with a coincident searchfor some means of retrieving the morning's disaster.
It was a disaster, and no less. He began by calling it a mistake, butmistakes which involve the possible loss of fortunes, small or great,are not to be lightly spoken of. By the time he reached the end of thefifth letter, he had run the gamut of expedients and concluded to trythe effect of a little wholesome parental authority.
"Go out and get me a Colorado Central time-card," he said to Quatremain;and when the secretary returned with a copy of the official time-table,Mr. Vennor traced out the schedule of the morning trains, east and west.Number Fifty-one was not yet due at Golden, and a telegram to thatstation would doubtless reach Gertrude.
"Take a message to Miss Gertrude, Harry," he began; but while he wastrying to formulate it in words which should be peremptory without beingincendiary, he thought better of it and went out to send it himself.There was a querulous old gentleman in the telegraph office who wasmaking life burdensome for the operator, and it was with no littledifficulty that the President secured enough of the young man's time andattention to serve his purpose.
"You are quite sure you can reach Golden before the train gets there,are you?" he said, writing the number of his telegraph frank in thecorner of the blank.
"Oh, yes," replied the operator, with an upward glance at the clock;"there's plenty of time. I'll send it right away."
"But I ah--protest!" declared the querulous gentleman, and he failed notto do so most emphatically after the President left the office.
The operator turned a deaf ear, and sent the message to Miss Vennor; andwhen, in due course of time, Brockway's answer came, he sent it out tothe private car. The President was still dictating and was in the midstof a letter when the yellow envelope was handed him, but he stoppedshort and opened the telegram. The reading of Brockway's insolentquestion imposed a severe test upon Mr. Vennor's powers of self-control,and the outcome was not wholly a victory on the side of stoicism.
"Curse his impudence!" he broke out, wrathfully; "I'll make this costhim something before he's through with it!" and he sprang to his feetand hurried out with the inflammatory message in his hand.
It is a trite saying that anger is an evil counsellor, and whosohearkens thereto will have many things to repent of. No one knew thevalue of this aphorism better than Francis Vennor, but for once in a wayhe allowed himself to disregard it. He knew well enough that adelicately worded hint to Burton would bring the general agent and hiswife and Gertrude back to Denver on the next train, but wrath would notbe satisfied with such a placable expedient. On the contrary, heresolved to communicate directly with Gertrude herself, and to rebukeher openly, as her undutiful conduct deserved.
In the telegraph office the operator was still having trouble with thequerulous gentleman, but the President went to the desk to write hismessage, shutting his ears to the shrill voice of the gadfly.
"But, sir, I must ah--protest. I distinctly heard Mr. ah--Brockway tellyou to send anything I desired, and I demand that you send this; it waspart of the ah--stipulation, sir!"
"This" was a message of five hundred-odd words to the local railwayagent in the small town where Mr. Jordan had purchased his ticket,setting forth his grievance at length; and the operator naturallydemurred. While he was trying to persuade the pertinacious gentleman tocut the jeremiad down to a reasonable length, the President finished histelegram to his daughter. It was curt and incisive.
"TO MISS GERTRUDE VENNOR, "On Train 51.
"If you do not return this forenoon we shall not wait for you.
"FRANCIS VENNOR."
The operator took it, and the President glanced at his watch.
"Can you catch that train at Beaver Brook?" he inquired.
"Yes, just about."
"Do it, then, at once. Excuse me--" to the gadfly--"this is veryimportant, and you have all day for your business."
The brusque interruption started the fountain of protests afresh, butthe operator turned away and sat down to his instrument. Beaver Brookanswered its call promptly, and the message to Miss Vennor clickedswiftly through the sounder.
For a quarter of an hour or more, Brockway's friend in the Golden officehad been neglecting his work and listening intently to the irrelevantchattering of his sounder. He heard Denver call Beaver Brook, and whenthe station in the canyon answered, he promptly grounded the wire andcaught up his pen. The effect of this manoeuvre was to short-circuitthat particular wire at Golden, cutting off all stations beyond; butthis the Denver operator could not know. As a result, the President'stelegram got no farther than Golden, and Brockway's friend took it downas it was sent. At the final word he opened the wire again in time tohear Beaver Brook swear at the prolonged "break," and ask Denver whatwas wanted.
Thereupon followed a smart quarrel in telegraphic shorthand, in whichDenver accused Beaver Brook of going to sleep over his instrument, andBeaver Brook intimated that Denver was intoxicated. All of which gavethe obstructionist at Golden a clear minute in which to determine whatto do.
"If I only knew what Fred wants to have happen," he mused, "I might beable to fix it up right for him. As I don't, I'll just have to make hashof it--no, I won't, either; I'll just trim it down a bit and make ittalk backward--that's the idea! and three words dropped will do it, byjing! Wonder if I can get the switchboard down fine enough to cut themout? Here she comes again."
The quarrel was concluded and Denver began to repeat the message.Brockway's friend bent over his table with his soul in his ears and hisfinger-tips. Denver was impatient, and the preliminaries chatteredthrough the sounder as one long word. At the final letter in theaddress, the Golden man's switch-key flicked to the right and then backagain; and at the tenth word in the message the movement was repeated.
"O. K.," said Beaver Brook.
"Repeat," clicked Denver.
"No time; train's here," came back from the station in the canyon; andBrockway's friend sat back and chuckled softly.