In the Midst of Alarms Part 22

Yates recognized in the boy the same emulous desire to outstrip his fellows that had influenced himself when he was a young reporter, and he at once admitted the injustice of attempting to deprive him of the fruits of his enterprise.

"No," he said, "that won't do. No; you have found me, and you're a young fellow who will be president of the telegraph company some day, or perhaps hold the less important office of the United States presidency.

Who knows? Have you a telegraph blank?"

"Of course," said the boy, fis.h.i.+ng out a bundle from the leathern wallet by his side. Yates took the paper, and flung himself down under the tree.

"Here's a pencil," said the messenger.

"A newspaper man is never without a pencil, thank you," replied Yates, taking one out of his inside pocket. "Now, Renmark, I'm not going to tell a lie on this occasion," he continued.

"I think the truth is better on all occasions."

"Right you are. So here goes for the solid truth."

Yates, as he lay on the ground, wrote rapidly on the telegraph blank.

Suddenly he looked up and said to the professor: "Say, Renmark, are you a doctor?"

"Of laws," replied his friend.

"Oh, that will do just as well." And he finished his writing.

"How is this?" he cried, holding the paper at arm's length:

"L. F. SPENCER,

"_Managing Editor 'Argus,' New York:_

"I'm flat on my back. Haven't done a hand's turn for a week. Am under the constant care, night and day, of one of the most eminent doctors in Canada, who even prepares my food for me. Since leaving New York trouble of the heart has complicated matters, and at present baffles the doctor.

Consultations daily. It is impossible for me to move from here until present complications have yielded to treatment.

"Simson would be a good man to take charge in my absence."

"YATES.

"There," said Yates, with a tone of satisfaction, when he had finished the reading. "What do you think of that?"

The professor frowned, but did not answer. The boy, who partly saw through it, but not quite, grinned, and said: "Is it true?"

"Of course it's true!" cried Yates, indignant at the unjust suspicion.

"It is a great deal more true than you have any idea of. Ask the doctor, there, if it isn't true. Now, my boy, will you give this in when you get back to the office? Tell 'em to rush it through to New York. I would mark it 'rush' only that never does any good, and always makes the operator mad."

The boy took the paper, and put it in his wallet.

"It's to be paid for at the other end," continued Yates.

"Oh, that's all right," answered the messenger with a certain condescension, as if he were giving credit on behalf of the company.

"Well, so long," he added. "I hope you'll soon be better, Mr. Yates."

Yates sprang to his feet with a laugh, and followed him to the fence.

"Now, youngster, you are up to snuff, I can see that. They'll perhaps question you when you get back. What will you say?"

"Oh, I'll tell 'em what a hard job I had to find you, and let 'em know n.o.body else could 'a' done it, and I'll say you're a pretty sick man. I won't tell 'em you gave me a dollar!"

"Right you are, sonny; _you'll_ get along. Here's five dollars, all in one bill. If you meet any other of the messengers, take them back with you. There's no use of their wasting valuable time in this little neck of the woods."

The boy stuffed the bill into his vest pocket as carelessly as if it represented cents instead of dollars, mounted his tired horse, and waved his hand in farewell to the newspaper man. Yates turned and walked slowly back to the tent. He threw himself once more into the hammock. As he expected, the professor was more taciturn than ever, and, although he had been prepared for silence, the silence irritated him. He felt ill used at having so unsympathetic a companion.

"Look here, Renmark; why don't you say something?"

"There is nothing to say."

"Oh, yes, there is. You don't approve of me, do you?"

"I don't suppose it makes any difference whether I approve or not."

"Oh, yes, it does. A man likes to have the approval of even the humblest of his fellow-creatures. Say, what will you take in cash to approve of me? People talk of the tortures of conscience, but you are more uncomfortable than the most cast-iron conscience any man ever had. One's own conscience one can deal with, but a conscience in the person of another man is beyond one's control. Now, it is like this: I am here for quiet and rest. I have earned both, and I think I am justified in----"

"Now, Mr. Yates, please spare me any cheap philosophy on the question. I am tired of it."

"And of me, too, I suppose?"

"Well, yes, rather--if you want to know."

Yates sprang out of the hammock. For the first time since the encounter with Bartlett on the road Renmark saw that he was thoroughly angry. The reporter stood with clenched fists and flas.h.i.+ng eyes, hesitating. The other, his heavy brows drawn, while not in an aggressive att.i.tude, was plainly ready for an attack. Yates concluded to speak, and not to strike. This was not because he was afraid, for he was not a coward. The reporter realized that he had forced the conversation, and remembered he had invited Renmark to accompany him. Although this recollection stayed his hand, it had no effect on his tongue.

"I believe," he said slowly, "that it would do you good for once to hear a straight, square, unbiased opinion of yourself. You have a.s.sociated so long with pupils, to whom your word is law, that it may interest you to know what a man of the world thinks of you. A few years of schoolmastering is enough to spoil an archangel. Now, I think, of all the----"

The sentence was interrupted by a cry from the fence:

"Say, do you gentlemen know where a fellow named Yates lives?"

The reporter's hand dropped to his side. A look of dismay came over his face, and his truculent manner changed with a suddenness that forced a smile even to the stern lips of Renmark.

Yates backed toward the hammock like a man who had received an unexpected blow.

"I say, Renny," he wailed, "it's another of those cursed telegraph messengers. Go, like a good fellow, and sign for the dispatch. Sign it 'Dr. Renmark, for R. Yates.' That will give it a sort of official, medical-bulletin look. I wish I had thought of that when the other boy was here. Tell him I'm lying down." He flung himself into the hammock, and Renmark, after a moment's hesitation, walked toward the boy at the fence, who had repeated his question in a louder voice. In a short time he returned with the yellow envelope, which he tossed to the man in the hammock. Yates seized it savagely, tore it into a score of pieces, and scattered the fluttering bits around him on the ground. The professor stood there for a few moments in silence.

"Perhaps," he said at last, "you'll be good enough to go on with your remarks."

"I was merely going to say," answered Yates wearily, "that you are a mighty good fellow, Renny. People who camp out always have rows. That is our first; suppose we let it be the last. Camping out is something like married life, I guess, and requires some forbearance on both sides. That philosophy may be cheap, but I think it is accurate. I am really very much worried about this newspaper business. I ought, of course, to fling myself into the chasm like that Roman fellow; but, hang it! I've been flinging myself into chasms for fifteen years, and what good has it done? There's always a crisis in a daily newspaper office. I want them to understand in the _Argus_ office that I am on my vacation."

"They will be more apt to understand from the telegram that you're on your deathbed."

Yates laughed. "That's so," he said; "but, you see, Renny, we New Yorkers live in such an atmosphere of exaggeration that if I did not put it strongly it wouldn't have any effect. You've got to give a big dose to a man who has been taking poison all his life. They will take off ninety per cent. from any statement I make, anyhow; so, you see, I have to pile it up pretty high before the remaining ten per cent. amounts to anything."

The conversation was interrupted by the crackling of the dry twigs behind them, and Yates, who had been keeping his eye nervously on the fence, turned round. Young Bartlett pushed his way through the underbrush. His face was red; he had evidently been running.

"Two telegrams for you, Mr. Yates," he panted. "The fellows that brought 'em said they were important; so I ran out with them myself, for fear they wouldn't find you. One of them's from Port Colborne, the other's from Buffalo."