Davies sat down and began his account. He was intent on describing things to date, the uncertainty and turmoil, the apparent victory of the sheriff. Plainly the courage of the latter had won, and it was all so picturesque. “A foiled lynching,” he began, and as he wrote the obliging postmaster, who had by now returned, picked up the pages and carefully deciphered them for himself. “That’s all right. I’ll see if I can get the _Times_ now,” he commented. “Very obliging postmaster,” thought Davies as he wrote, but he had so often encountered pleasant and obliging people on his rounds that he soon dropped that thought. The food was brought, and still Davies wrote on, munching as he did so. In a little while the _Times_ answered an often-repeated call. “Davies at Baldwin,” ticked the postmaster, “get ready for quite a story!” “Let ’er go!” answered the operator at the _Times_, who had been expecting this dispatch. As the events of the day formulated themselves in his mind, Davies wrote and turned over page after page. Between whiles he looked out through the small window before him where afar off he could see a lonely light twinkling against a hillside. Not infrequently he stopped his work to see if anything new was happening, whether the situation was in any danger of changing, but apparently it was not. He then proposed to remain until all possibility of a tragedy, this night anyhow, was eliminated. The operator also wandered about, waiting for an accumulation of pages upon which he could work but making sure to keep up with the writer. The two became quite friendly. Finally, his dispatch nearly finished, he asked the postmaster to caution the night editor at K---- to the effect, that if anything more happened before one in the morning he would file it, but not to expect anything more as nothing might happen. The reply came that he was to remain and await developments. Then he and the postmaster sat down to talk.