the young operator that lasted for several seconds.
The appreciation did not end there. On receiving Molly’s “O.K.,” Scott, true to his promise to the reporter, began sending a brief story of the accident to the “Daily Press.” As he ended, a jovial drummer handed him a two-dollar-bill.
“Send a message (by wire from Beelton),” he directed, “to Mrs. J. B. Bauton, Anston, Illinois: ‘Won’t be home to-night. Engine got tired and laid down in the smoke-belt. Your own smoked-herring—John.’”
There was a shout of laughter, then instantly a general scramble on the part of the other passengers to send messages out to their friends, at the same figure.
Scott demurred at the price, as being too high, but the passengers insisted, and when, half an hour later, a prolonged whistle announced the coming of the relief-engine, the drummer thrust into Scott’s coat-pocket a bundle of bills of the size of a base-ball.
“You can use it to buy a portable wireless set for yourself,” suggested the station-agent, as, with the throng of thankful travelers, they returned to the coaches.
“I will,” said Scott. “With half of it, that is. One half goes to Molly, of course.”
A world disaster.
Young Geographer: “Oh, Father! I ’ve cracked the Atlantic Ocean, and smashed South America all to pieces.”
426
