“Tell him he must wait a minute longer,” I answered, for her. “Miss Colton, it seems to me that, whether we can do anything or not, we should know the particulars. Tell that man--Phineas Cahoon, the depot master, I suppose it is--that there is an answer and he must wait for it. Now let's consult that code.” She took the code book and I picked up a sheet of paper and a pencil from the table. “We must ask him to send all the particulars,” I declared. “Look up 'send' in the code, Miss Colton.” She was turning the pages of the little book when the butler knocked once more. “He says he can't send any message until morning, Miss Mabel. The telegraph office closes at eight o'clock.” The code book fell to the table. Miss Colton stared helplessly at me. “What SHALL we do?” she breathed. I rose to my feet. “Wait, Johnson,” I called. “Make that man wait a moment longer. Miss Colton, I have an idea. Would your father be willing to--but, that is silly! Of course he would! I'll see Cahoon myself.” I found Phineas, long-legged and gaunt, sitting on the front step of the colonial portico. He had been invited into the hall, but had refused the invitation. “I had on my workin' duds,” he explained later. “A feller that's been handlin' freight all the afternoon ain't fit to set on gold-plated furniture.” He looked up in surprise as I came out. “Well, for thunder sakes!” he exclaimed, in astonishment. “It's Ros Paine! What in the nation are you doin' in here, Ros? Ain't married into the family, have ye? Haw, haw!” I could have kicked him for that pleasantry--if he had not been just then too important a personage to kick. As it was, his chance remark knocked my errand out of my head, momentarily. “How's the old man, Ros?” he whispered. “They tell me it's brought on by high livin', champagne wine and such. Is it?” “Phin,” said I, ignoring the question, “would you stay up all night for twenty dollars?” He stared at me. “What kind of conundrum's that?” he demanded. “'Would I set up all night for twenty dollars?' That may be a joke, but--” “Would you? I mean it. Mr. Colton is sick and his daughter needs some one to send and receive messages over their private telegraph wire. She will pay you twenty dollars--or I will, if she doesn't--if you will stay here and do that for her. Will you?” For a minute he sat there staring at me. “You mean it, Ros?” he asked, slowly. “You do, hey! I thought p'raps--but no, it's long past April Fool day. WILL I do it? Show me the telegraph place quick, afore I wake up and come out of the ether. Twenty dollars! Consarn it, I send messages all the week for twelve, and hustle freight and sell tickets into the bargain. I ain't had no supper, but never mind. Make it twenty-five and I'll stay all day to-morrer.” I led him into the library and explained his presence to Miss Colton. She was delighted.