Lord Stranleigh Abroad, Robert Barr [room on the broom read aloud TXT] 📗

the first man I ever heard say that S. A. Ricketts doesn't know very much, but I think by and by you will find that others know a great deal."

"Perhaps they know a great deal that is not so; there's a lot of knowledge of that kind lying around loose."

"Very likely," remarked Jim, laconically, then turned on his heel and walked down the street, while Stranleigh went towards the depot to enlist the services of a telegraph operator, and learn when the next train left for the east.

Stranleigh found the telegraph operator dozing in a wooden chair tilted back against the wall, his soft hat drawn over his eyes, his feet resting on a rung of the chair. It was a hot day, and the commercial inactivity of Bleachers called for very little exertion on the part of the telegraphist. The young man slowly roused himself as the door opened and shut. His unexpected customer nodded good morning to him.

"Could you oblige me with some forms?" asked the newcomer.

"Forms? Forms of what?" The operator's feet came down with a crash on the board floor as he rose from his chair.

"Well, telegraph blanks, perhaps I should have said."

"Oh, certainly."

The young man fished one out from a drawer, and flung it on the counter.

"This will do excellently for a beginning," said Stranleigh, "but you'd better let me have a dozen to go on with."

The young man was waking up. He supplied the demand, and with ever-increasing amazement, watched his client write.

Stranleigh gave the New York detective particulars in great detail so far as he possessed them, asked him to spare no expense, and requested that Armstrong, when found, should be presented with two hundred dollars or more, as he required, with admonition to take the first train home, where his presence was urgently needed.

"Great Scott!" cried the operator, "is that all one message?"

"Yes," said Stranleigh.

"Where is it going?"

"I've written the address as plainly as I can. It's going to New York."

"I say, stranger," protested the telegraphist, "have you any idea what it costs to send a message across the Continent to New York?"

"No, I haven't, but I expect to be in possession of that information as soon as you have mastered my handwriting, and counted the words."

The operator was practically speechless when he reached the end of his enumeration, but after making a note on the pad, he was sufficiently recovered to remark--

"Say, stranger, you'll have to dig up a pretty big wad to pay for this. We don't give credit in a Western Union office."

"I shouldn't think of asking credit from a downtrodden monopoly," said Stranleigh, pulling out his pocket book, and liquidating his debt. "You ought to be happy if you get a percentage."

"Worse luck, I don't."

"Well, I think you're entitled to one. I've given a fee this morning and received no particular equivalent for it. Do you, being a useful man, object to accepting a five-dollar bill?"

"Not on your life!" assented the operator with great earnestness.

Stranleigh passed it over.

"I'm expecting a reply. At what time shall I call for it?"

"You don't need to call, Mr. Stranleigh. When it comes, I'll lock up the office, and find you if you're anywhere in town."

"I'm stopping over at the tavern."

"All right; you'll get it."

"Thanks. Good morning."

"See you later," said the now thoroughly-awakened operator, and Stranleigh proceeded to the railway station. He took the next train to the nearest town east, and there did some more telegraphing, but this time the message was in cypher, and it was addressed to his agent in New York. Translated, it read--

"Send me at once by express, registered and insured, twenty thousand dollars in currency, made up of five dollar, ten dollar, and hundred dollar bills."

The address was fully written out in plain English. He found there was time for a satisfactory lunch before the west-bound train arrived, and he partook of it in the chief hotel, whose accommodation was much superior to that of the Bleachers tavern.

On his return to headquarters, he called in at the telegraph office. The young man in charge, at once recognising him, announced--

"Nothing doing. The moment anything comes I'll take it over to the tavern. Say, is there anything secret about that telegram you sent?"

"No; why do you ask?"

"Well, Mr. Ricketts, a lawyer here, came in about ten minutes ago, and described you, and wanted to know if you had sent a telegram."

"What did you say to him?"

"I said nobody had sent a telegram, and that I knew nothing of you. He seemed powerful anxious, and offered me a dollar to let him know if you telegraphed anything. I went over to the tavern to tell you about it, but they said you hadn't been in since breakfast."

"I suppose you haven't many chances of picking up an extra dollar in Bleachers?"

"No; I haven't. Ricketts is always mighty curious about anyone who arrives here, but I never knew him offer a cent for information before."

"I'm very much obliged to you. You go right over to Ricketts' office and pick up his dollar, but don't say _I_ gave you the advice. By the way, wouldn't you be breaking the rules of the Western Telegraph Company if you divulged the purport of any message that passed through your hands?"

A look of trouble, almost of fear, came over the young man's face.

"If a telegram is secret," he said, "the sender usually writes it in cypher."

"Quite so, but even in that case wouldn't you be punished if it became known that you had shown Mr. Ricketts a private despatch entrusted to your care?"

"Certainly," admitted the telegraphist, exhibiting more and more uneasiness, "but I have not shown your telegram to anybody, and what I told you was entirely in confidence."

"Oh, you need have no fear of my rounding on you. I am merely endeavouring to put you in possession of that dollar without getting your neck in a noose. Don't you see that you are placing yourself entirely at Mr. Ricketts' mercy?"

"But you," protested the frightened young man, "advised me to do so."

"Undoubtedly. I want you to get that dollar, but not to place yourself in jeopardy. From what I saw of Ricketts this morning, I should not like to be in his power, yet his dollar is just as good as any other man's dollar, and I want you to detach it from him with safety, and profit to yourself. Let me have another telegraph blank."

Stranleigh wrote rapidly--

"Pinkerton Detective Agency, Chicago.

"I want to be put into communication with Stanley Armstrong,
who left Chicago on foot ten days ago, for the West, and I
am willing to pay one hundred dollars for the job.

"EDMUND STRANLEIGH.

"White's Hotel, Bleachers."

"There," said Stranleigh, passing over the sheet to the operator, "you show that to our inquisitive friend Ricketts, but don't send it over the line."

Stranleigh slept that night at White's Hotel, and shortly after breakfast next morning the telegraph clerk came across with a very satisfactory telegram from New York. The sender could not positively predict the finding of Armstrong, but anticipated no difficulty in the task.

Stranleigh paid his bill at the hotel, ordered out his horse, and trotted off towards the ranch. He saw no more of Ricketts, who, if on any trail, was following the wrong one.

Dusk had fallen as he was about to emerge into the clearing which in daylight would have afforded him a sight of Armstrong's house. Suddenly and stealthily he was surrounded by six armed men, and the voice of Jim Dean broke the stillness.

"Good evening, Mr. Stranleigh. I must ask you to get down from your horse."

"Willingly," replied the rider. "I confess I have had enough equestrian exercise for one day."

"We have supper ready for you at the bunk house."

"Why at the bunk house? I am perfectly satisfied with the fare that Mr. Armstrong's family provides."

"We'd like a little conversation with you, and the conversation must take place in private."

"In that case, Mr. Dean, you could hardly find a better spot than this."

"We're a kindly set of chaps, and couldn't think of keeping a hungry man out here."

"But I'm not very hungry. I took a pocketful of sandwiches with me from the tavern."

"Nevertheless, you are coming with us, either peaceably, or by force, whichever you choose."

"Oh, quite willingly, of course. I should be ungrateful if I gave you any unnecessary trouble, while accepting your hospitality. I may add that I am unarmed, so if you keep your guns in readiness you need fear no reprisal on my part."

"That's all right," responded Jim. "We're not easily scared, but are prepared to protect ourselves should you try any funny business."

"Is Peter going to take my horse to the farm?"

"Sure; your horse will be put in its old quarters, and will be well taken care of."

"Then I should be glad if Peter would oblige me by telling Miss Armstrong that I have arrived safely, and will give her an account of my journey when next I have the pleasure of meeting her."

"I'm afraid Peter can't carry any messages; indeed, it's not at all necessary. I've told Miss Armstrong that your horse will be brought back, and that I saw you off on the east-bound train, which is quite true. You've brought back the horse, and you did go east on the train. Miss Armstrong thinks you have become tired of waiting for her father, and that you've gone either to Chicago or New York."

"Am I to regard myself as your prisoner, then?"

"Prisoner is an ugly word, and we are not entitled to call ourselves gaolers, but if you wouldn't mind looking on it in that way, it's all the same to us."

"Well, truthful Jim, I'm your man in every sense of the word. Let us begin our amicable journey. I yearn for the bunk house."

"You will keep silent? No shouting or calling for help? There's no help to be had anyhow, and a noise would merely alarm the women."

"I recognise the necessity for silence, and I shall make no outcry. Indeed, my whole future conduct while with you will be governed by the strictest secrecy. When I get tired of the bunk house I shall merely cut all your throats while you are asleep, and will do it in the quietest and gentlest manner."

Jim laughed.

"I guess we can take care of our throats, but I'm much obliged for the suggestion, which may come in handy if you get funny, as I said before."

They reached the bunk house by a circuitous route. A fine fire of logs was blazing on the ample hearth, for even in summer a fire was good to look at when night came on, at that elevation.

When Stranleigh sat down to supper, he regretted more than ever the civilised fare of the farm house. The menu was rough, but plentiful, and they all sat together at the long table. A meal was a serious event, and they partook of it in silence. It was evident that the men were