It seemed as though Peter McSwain never did anything without perspiring. He perspired now with the simple effort of thought. But it was a considerable effort and a considerable thought. He crowded more of the latter into five minutes, he assured himself, than a bankrupt Wall Street man could have done on the eve of settling day.

The object of his thought was the telegraph operator and the subject of it the interesting thesis of bribery. Then, too, there were the side issues, which included David Slosson, a telegraph message, and two men waiting at the other end of things for the result of his share in the proceedings.

He made no attempt at pleasant conversation with the row of guests lounging with feet skywards on the shady veranda. For the time at least the affairs of his hotel were quite secondary. It seemed to him just now that these men were the misfortunes of a commercial interest.

They were the things that kept him living concealed beneath an exterior of polite attention which he detested. He had never had a chance of being his real self until this moment. There was work of a delicate nature to be performed, work which was to prove his ability in those finer channels where individuality would count and genuine cleverness must be displayed. A lot was depending upon his capacity.

This feeling inspired him, and the dew on his forehead became a moist and shallow lake that was already overflowing its banks. At the end of five minutes, after having seen David Slosson leave the telegraph office and move off down the Main Street, this lake became a streaming torrent as he left the veranda and passed round to the back of the hotel.

This retrograde movement was a part of his deeply laid plans. He had no object in visiting either his barn or his kitchens. The Chinese cook possessed no interest for him at the moment, and as for the hens and the team of horses, and his lame choreman who tended them, they had never been farther from his thoughts.

He appeared interested, however, and mopped his forehead several times as he surveyed the scene with attentive eye. Then he passed on without a word. Now his route became circuitous. He walked a hundred yards away from the town, and appeared to be contemplating the open country with weighty thoughts in his mind. Then he turned away and moved in another direction, towards the railroad track. Again he paused with measuring eye. Then he crossed the track and strode off in a fresh direction. This time he was moving northwards away from the depot and telegraph office. Those who now chanced to observe him lost all interest in his movements, and for the time his perspiring face was forgotten. By the time he came within view of the hotel veranda again his very existence had been forgotten in the midst of the busy talk of his guests. And so he was enabled to reach the telegraph office from the farther side without arousing comment.

He casually opened the door and found himself standing before the barrier of the paper-littered office. The operator was at his instrument table ticking out a message in that alert, concentrated manner peculiar to all telegraphists. The man glanced round at his visitor and continued his work without a sign of recognition, and the hotel-keeper propped himself on the counter and drew a cigar from his vest pocket.

By the time he had lit it satisfactorily the ticking of the instrument ceased, and a sigh of relief warned him that Steve Mason was free. He glanced across at the table with his hot eyes and a shadowy smile.

"Busy these times, Steve," he said genially. "The old days when we had time to sit around in this office and yarn are as far back as the flood. Say, you ain't got paralysis of the arm yet? Maybe you work 'em both. Hev a smoke?"

Steve smiled wearily.

"Don't you never take on operatin', Peter," he said, accepting the proffered smoke. "Thanks. What's this? One of those 'multiflavums'

of yours you keep for drummers?"

Peter shook his head.

"My own smokes. They match the times. We're all making fortunes."

"Are we?"

"Well--ain't we?"

"None of it's come my way," said Steve, lighting his cigar. "But that's always the way. We get shunted to a bum town like this on a branch, and they pay us salary according. If the city makes a break and gets busy and we're nearly crazy with overwork they don't boost us up. Overwork don't mean overpay, nor overtime. They ain't raised me a dollar. I'm going to get right on the buck if things keep up. I tell you I've eaten three meals in this office to-day, with my hand on the key, and I--I'm just sick to death. I don't take or send again this night."

"Guess you'll be able to make a break when you sell your holdings,"

McSwain went on sympathetically. He raised the barrier and stepped into the office, and sat himself in a chair he had often occupied in the unruffled days before the coal.

Steve laughed and sat himself on the corner of his instrument table.

"I ain't got no holding. You can't buy land on a hundred dollars a month. No, sir. What with the Chinee laundry and my boarding-house, I guess I need to smoke your 'multiflavums' and drink your worst rye.

Why, I ain't got a balance over to buy an ice-cream-soda in winter."

"You sure are badly staked," murmured Peter.

They smoked in silence for some moments. The atmosphere of the little office was opening the pores of Peter's skin again.

"Say," he went on presently, mopping his brow carefully, "I made quite a stake out of that agent feller, Slosson. Somewheres around ten thousand dollars. Quite a piece of money, eh? I ain't sure he's a fool or a pretty wise guy."

"He's the railroad man," said Steve significantly.

"Yes. That don't make him out a fool, does it?"

"I'd smile."

"So'd I--if I knew more. I'd give a hundred dollars to see what's to happen in the next week or so. I've got a big stake here, if the railroad don't shift the depot. Slosson says they won't. Says he's bought all he needs right here for his company. I take it he's helped himself, too. Still, I'd like to know. The boys back at the hotel are fallin' right over 'emselves to get in. They reckon this place is a cinch--since Slosson's bought. I'd like to be sure."

Steve laughed. He read through his friend's purpose now. The visit was not, as he told himself, for nothing. Peter was looking for information which it would be a serious offense for him to give--if he possessed any, which he didn't.

"Guess there's nothing doing, Peter," he said slyly.

"What d'you mean?" The hotel-keeper's eyes were hotter than ever. But there was no resentment in them.

"Why, I just don't know a thing what Slosson's doing. And if I did I couldn't tell you. It would be a criminal offense. Slosson ain't sent a word over the line since he started to buy metal until to-night, and the message I've just sent for him is in code, so, as far as I'm concerned, it's so much Greek. I don't know who it's to, even. That's why I guess there's nothing doing."

"No--I s'pose not. I s'pose codes can be read, though? There's experts who worry out any old code. Guess it's mighty interestin'. If Slosson's sendin' in code I guess he's got something in it he don't need folks to know. That makes it more worrying."

Peter heaved a great sigh of longing. The other shook his head.

"You've got to find the key to 'em," he said.

"Yep--a Bible, or some queer old book. Maybe the 'History of the United States.' Say, I'd hate to chase up the 'History of the United States' looking for a key. Maybe it would be interestin', though.

Say----"

"You couldn't do it in a month of years," laughed Steve, humoring his friend. "What would it be worth to you to be able to read his code?"

"Oh, maybe I'd make fifty thousand dollars."

"Whew! That's some money."

"Sure. I'd like to try. Say, boy, I'll hand you five hundred dollars to let me take a copy of that message. All you need do is just leave it on your table there for five minutes and lock the outer door. Then just pass right into the other room till the five minutes is up. I'll hand you the bills right here an' now. I'd like to figure on that message. Is it a bet?"

Steve shook his head. He was scared. He knew the consequences of discovery to himself too well. It was penitentiary. It was the equivalent of tapping wires. But Peter was unfolding a big roll of bills, and the temptation of handling that money was very great.

"You just need to copy the message out? That all?"

"Just that. No more."

"You won't need to disfigure my record?"

"Sure not." Peter grinned. He was sweating, profusely. He felt he was on a hot scent and likely to make a kill.

"Only to make a _copy_. It's a big bunch of money for just a copy,"

Steve demurred suspiciously.

Peter laughed.

"Say, boy, we're old friends. I ain't out to do you a hurt. All I need is to try and worry out that code and know things. If I was sure of being able to read it, why, this five hundred would be five thousand, and worth it all to me, every cent of it. If I can't read that code, then I'll just hand you back my copy, and no harm's done.

See? I tell you I wouldn't hurt you for more than the money I hope to make. Is it a bet?"

Steve passed out through the barrier and turned the key in the door.