n 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 ear