Billy glanced around. "I thought I heard some one cough." "So did I. It can’t be the general. He wouldn’t cough." A hollow cough sounded distinctly from the bushes behind and the Watermelon rose to investigate. It was nearly three and at three he would have to go, or the man down yonder in the swimming hole might come after him to reclaim his clothes and motor-car. The Watermelon begrudged every precious moment. "Wait, and I will see what the mutt wants," said he. "You will wait, won’t you?" he pleaded, looking down at her where she sat on the log. "We really ought to go," said Billy. "All right, but don’t run off until I’ve—I’ve cured that cough, will you?" Billy nodded and the Watermelon strode to the bushes from whence had sounded the harsh, constrained cough. He pushed the branches aside and gazed into the small, pinched face of a thin youth of about eighteen, dressed in the uniform of the hotel. "Hist," cautioned the boy, before the Watermelon could speak. "I want to tell you something important." "All right, spit it out and be quick about it," ordered the Watermelon. If the real William Hargrave Batchelor had managed to get word to the hotel about the impostor, the sooner he knew it the better. The boy had probably come to offer to help him escape in exchange for something, money most likely. Like all tramps, the Watermelon was quick to read faces, and in the crafty young face before him, he saw only the dollar mark. "It—I don’t want no one to hear me," said the boy, with a motion toward the log and Billy’s slim young back. The Watermelon hesitated, but in the shifty eyes he saw fear and deference. If he knew the Watermelon for a tramp, there would be no deference. "Gwan, spit it out," ordered the Watermelon. "I ain’t keen for the pleasure of hearing any of your heart to heart secrets." "It’s very important," said the boy, "and no one must hear." "I suppose you think every one is busting to hear your words of wisdom," said the Watermelon. "Probably get a dime a word, eh?" "It’s about you," said the boy, harsh with impatience and nervousness. "It’s—" He drew a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out. "He gave me that to send." "Who are you?" "The telegraph clerk," whispered the boy, with a frightened glance toward Billy on the log. The Watermelon read the paper and smiled a slow, sweet smile of anticipated pleasure as the full import of Bartlett’s telegram became clear. He glanced at Billy and his smile deepened. Then he turned and drew the boy farther away. "Bartlett sent this, eh?" "Yes," cried the boy, eager with excitement over the service he was rendering the great man. "And the minute I read it and knew that you were here, I knew you ought to have it." "Didn’t you send it?" "Yes, I had to. You see he stood right there. But just as soon as he went, I lit out to find you." "Where is he now?"