Each stone, shrub, each dark frowning cliff reminded them of their
meeting, and silently, with their hearts full, they walked along until
a dilapidated box car hove into view, with one oil-lamp still burning,
twinkling evidence that Carson had not retired for the night; and as
they came abreast the door they found him dozing.
"Wake up, Carson," cried Jim, tapping him on the shoulder, "wake up and
get ready to do a big job on the keys. And keep your ears open, too,
old timer, for it's interesting, every word of it--Miss Donovan is
going to tell a story."
Carson rubbed his eyes, sat up, gave ample greeting, got up, lit
another lamp, and tested his wire.
"East wire free as air, Jim," he said. "You can begin that there story
whenever you want."
And so, weary as she was, and with nerves still high-pitched, Stella
Donovan began, slowly at first, until she got the swing of her "lead,"
and then more rapidly; one after another the yellow sheets on which she
wrote were fed past Westcott's critical eyes and into the hands of
Carson, who operated his "bug" like a madman.
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