He rapidly scribbled a few lines on the pad, and threw the sheets to
Meredith. "Get those telegrams to the Western Union office in a rush,
please. Read them first."
With a very red face Tom read them. One was addressed to H. Fisbee:
"You are relieved from the cares of editorship. You will turn over the
management of the 'Herald' to Warren Smith. You will give him the McCune
papers. If you do not, or if you destroy them, you cannot hide where I
shall not find you.
"JOHN HARKLESS."
The second was to Warren Smith:
"Take possession 'Herald.' Dismiss H. Fisbee. This your authority. Publish
McCune papers so labelled which H. Fisbee will hand you. Letter follows.
Beat McCune.
"JOHN HARKLESS."
The author of the curt epistles tossed restlessly on his couch, but the
reader of them stared, incredulous and dumfounded, uncertain of his
command of gravity. His jaw fell, and his open mouth might have betokened
a being smit to imbecility; and, haply, he might be, for Helen had written
him from Plattville, pledging his honor to secrecy with the first words,
and it was by her command that he had found excuses for not supplying his
patient with all the papers which happened to contain references to the
change of date for the Plattville convention. And Meredith had known for
some time where James Fisbee had found a "young relative" to be the savior
of the "Herald" for his benefactor's sake.
"You mean--you--intend to--you discharge young Fisbee?" he stammered at
last.
"Yes! Let me have the answers the instant they come, will you, Tom?" Then
Harkless turned his face from the wall and spoke through his teeth: "I
mean to see H. Fisbee before many days; I want to talk to him!"
But, though he tossed and fretted himself into what the doctor pronounced
a decidedly improved state, no answer came to either telegram that day or
night. The next morning a messenger boy stumbled up the front steps and
handed the colored man, Jim, four yellow envelopes, night messages. Three
of them were for Harkless, one was for Meredith. Jim carried them
upstairs, left the three with his master's guest, then knocked on his
master's door.
"What is it?" answered a thick voice. Meredith had not yet risen.
"A telegraph. Mist' Tawm."
There was a terrific yawn. "O-o-oh! Slide it--oh--under the--door."
"Yessuh."
Meredith lay quite without motion for several minutes, sleepily watching
the yellow rhomboid in the crevice. It was a hateful looking thing to come
mixing in with pleasant dreams and insist upon being read. After a while
he climbed groaningly out of bed, and read the message with heavy eyes,
still half asleep. He read it twice before it penetrated: