"All right!" Sharply, bravely, though inwardly steeling himself for
catastrophe, the lad counted, "One!--Two!--"
Again he won. "Oh, go on!" sputtered Iowa, through gritting teeth. And
the boy resumed.
"Hit the key a sharp rap! Pretty good. Now, two raps, one right after the
other. Good.
"Now, those are what we call 'dots.' Remember. Now, press the key down,
hold it for just a moment, and let it come up again. Very good. You would
learn telegraphy quickly, Mr. Burns. That is what we call a 'dash.'" With
the situation apparently so well in hand, Wilson was beginning almost to
enjoy it.
"Now I'll have you do what I've been aiming at. And remember always--my
finger is constantly pressing the trigger!"
"Now then, feel just this side of the key button, below. The little
button of a lever? Got it? Press it from you."
There was a single sharp upward click of relay and sounder. The key was
"open," ready for operation.
"Now listen. I want you to make the letter X--a dot, a dash, then two
more dots right together. And keep repeating till I stop you."
Still under the spell of the fancied revolver and the boy's unfaltering
gaze, the renegade cowman obeyed, and the telegraph instruments clicked
out a painfully deliberate, but fairly readable "X."
It was an idle half-hour, and when the despatcher at Exeter heard his
call he glanced up from a magazine, listened a moment, and impatiently
remarking, "Some idiot student!" returned to his reading.
But steadily, insistently, the repetition of X's continued, and at length
he reached forward, struck open the key, and demanded, "Who? Sign!"