What Happened to a Telegram
Customers were rare on such terribly cold nights. For a long time
Sophy McGurn held her chin in the palm of her hand, staring about her
from time to time, without seeing anything but the visions her anger
evolved. Presently, however, she took up the small bag of mail and
sorted out a few letters and papers, placing them in the individual
boxes. But while she worked the heightened color of her face remained
and her teeth often closed upon her lower lip. There was a postal card
addressed to Hugo Ennis. She turned it over, curiously, but it proved
to be an advertisement of some sort of machinery and she threw it from
her, impatiently.
"Supper's ready, Sophy," cried a shrill voice. "Train's in and
father'll be here in a minute. Get the table fixed."
"I'm coming," she answered.
For a minute she busied herself putting down plates and knives and
forks. She heard her father coming in. He had been away on some
business at the next station. She heard him kicking off his heavy felt
shoes and he came into the room in his stocking-feet.
"Hello, Ma! Hello, Sophy! Guess ye've been settin' too close to the
hot stove, ain't ye? Yer face is red as a beet."
"My face is all right!" she exclaimed, angrily. "Them as don't like it
can look the other way!"
Her mother, a quiet old soul, looked at her in silence and dished out
the broiled ham and potatoes. The old gentleman snickered but forebore
to add more fuel to the fire. He was a prudent man with a keen
appreciation of peace. They sat down. Under a chair the old cat was
playing with her lone kitten, sole remnant of a large litter. An
aggressive clock with a boldly painted frame was beating loudly.
Beneath the floor the oft-repeated gnawing of a mouse or rat went on,
distractingly. From the other side of the road, in spite of
double-windows and closed doors, came the wail of an ill-treated
violin.
"One of these days I'm goin' over to Carreau's an' smash that fiddle,"
suddenly asserted Sophy, truculently. "It's gettin' on my nerves. Talk
o' cats screechin'!"
"I wouldn't do that, Sophy," advised her mother, patiently. "Not but
what it's mighty tryin', sometimes, for Cyrille he don't ever get
further'n them two first bars of 'The Campbells are comin'.'"
Sophy sniffed and poured herself out strong tea. She drank two cups of
it but her appetite was evidently poor, for she hardly touched her
food. Her father was engaged in a long explanation of the misdeeds of
a man who had sold him inferior pork, as she folded her napkin,
slipped it into her ring, and went back into the store. Here she sat
on her stool again, tapping the counter with closed knuckles. Her eyes
chanced to fall upon the paper she had thrown down on the floor, and
she picked it up and began to read. Pete Coogan, when he had brought
it into the store, unknowingly had set big things in motion. He would
have been amazed at the consequences of his act.
Presently Sophy became deeply interested. The pages she turned
revealed marvelous things. Even to one of her limited attainments in
the way of education and knowledge of the world the artificiality of
many of the advertisements was apparent. Others made her wonder. It
was marvelous that there were so many gentlemen of good breeding and
fine prospects looking hungrily for soul-mates, and such a host of
women, young or, in a few instances, confessing to the early thirties,
seeking for the man of their dreams, for the companion who would
understand them, for the being who would bring poetry into their
lives. Some, it is true, hinted at far more substantial requirements.
But these, in the brief space of a few lines, were but hazily
revealed. Among the men were lawyers needing but slight help to allow
them to reach wondrous heights of forensic prosperity. There were
merchants utterly bound to princely achievement. Also there was a
sprinkling of foreign gentlemen suggesting that they might exchange
titles of high nobility for some little superfluity of wealth. Good
looks were not so essential as a kindly, liberal disposition, they
asserted, and also hinted that youth in their brides was less
important than the quality of bank accounts. The ladies, as described
by themselves, were tall and handsome, or small and vivacious. Some
esteemed themselves willowy while others acknowledged Junoesque forms.
But all of them, of either sex, high or short, thin or stout, appeared
to think only of bestowing undying love and affection for the pure
glory of giving, for the highest of altruistic motives. Other and more
trivial things were spoken of, as a rule, in a second short paragraph
which, to the initiated, would have seemed rather more important than
the longer announcements. At any rate, that which they asked in
exchange for the gifts they were prepared to lavish always appeared to
be quite trivial, at first sight.
Sophy McGurn, as she kept on reading, was not a little impressed. Yet,
gradually, a certain native shrewdness in her nature began to assert
itself. She had helped her father in the store for several years and
knew that gaudy labels might cover inferior goods. She by no means
believed all the things she read. At times she even detected
exaggeration, lack of candor, motives less allowable than the ones so
readily advanced.
"Guess most of them are fakes," she finally decided, not unwisely.
"But there's some of them must get terribly fooled. I--I wonder...."
Her cogitations were interrupted by a small boy who entered and asked
for a stamped envelope. A few people, later on, came in to find out if
there was any mail for them. But during the intervals she kept on
poring over those pages. One by one the lights of Carcajou were going
out. Carreau's fiddle had stopped whining long before. The cat lay
asleep in the wood-box, near the stove, with the kitten nestled
against her. Old McGurn called down to her that it was time for bed,
but the girl made no answer.
Yes, it was a marvelous idea that had come to her. She saw a dim
prospect of revenge. It was as if the frosted windows had gradually
cleared and let in the light of the stars. Hugo Ennis had made a
laughing-stock of her. He didn't like carrots, forsooth! She was only
too conscious of the failure of her efforts to attract him. But he had
noticed them and commented on them to others, evidently. It was enough
to make one wild!
The oil in the swinging lamp had grown very low and the light dim by
the time she finished a letter, in which she enclosed some money. Then
she stamped it and placed it in the bag that would be taken up in the
morning, for the eastbound express. Finally she placed the heavy iron
bar against the front door and went up the creaking stairs to her room
as the loud-ticking clock boomed out eleven strokes, an unearthly hour
for Carcajou.
A couple of weeks later a copy of the _Matrimonial Journal_ was
forwarded to A.B.C., P.O. Box 17, Carcajou, Ontario, Canada. Miss
Sophy McGurn retired with it to her room, looked nervously out of the
window, lest any one might have observed her, and searched the pages
feverishly. Yes! There it was! Her own words appeared in print!
A wealthy young man owning a silver mine in Canada would like to
correspond with a young lady who would appreciate a fine home
beside a beautiful river. In exchange for all that he can bestow
upon her he only seeks in the woman he will marry an affectionate
and kindly disposition suited to his own. Write A.B.C., P.O. Box
17, Carcajou, Ontario, Can.
During the next few days it was with unwonted eagerness that Sophy
opened the mail bags. Finally there came a letter, followed by five,
all in different handwritings and in the same mail. For another week
or ten days others dribbled in. They were all from different women,
cautiously worded, asking all manner of questions, venturing upon
descriptions of themselves. Unanimously they proclaimed themselves
bubbling over with affection and kindliness. The girl was impressed
with the wretched spelling of most of them, with the evident tone of
artificiality, with the patent fact that the writers were looking for
a bargain. All these letters, even the most poorly written, gave Sophy
the impression that the correspondents were dangerous people, she knew
not why, and might perhaps hoist her with her own petard. She studied
them over and over again, with a feeling of disappointment, and
reluctantly decided that the game was an unsafe one.
Two days had gone by without a letter to A.B.C. when at last one
turned up. At once it seemed utterly different, giving an impression
of bashfulness and timidity that contrasted with the boldness or the
caution of the others. That night, with a hand disguised as best
she could, the girl answered it. She knew that several days must
elapse before she could obtain a reply and awaited it impatiently.
It was this, in all probabilities, that made her speak snappishly to
people who came to trade in the store or avail themselves of the
post-office.
"I'm a fool," she told herself a score of times. "They all want the
money to come here and it must be enough for the return journey. This
last one ain't thought of it, but she'll ask also, in her next letter,
I bet. And I haven't got it to send; and if I had it I wouldn't do so.
They might pocket it and never turn up. And anyway I might be getting
in trouble with the postal authorities. Guess I better not answer when
it comes. I'll have to find some other way of getting square with
him."
By this time she regretted the dollars spent from her scant hoard for
the advertisement, but the reply came and the game became a
passionately interesting one. She answered the letter again, using a
wealth of imagination.
"She'll sure answer this one, but then I'll say I've changed my mind
and have decided that I ain't going to marry. Takes me really for a
man, she does. Must be a fool, she must. And she ain't asked for
money, ain't that funny? If she writes back she'll abuse me like a
pickpocket, anyway. Won't he be mad when he gets the letter!"
Sophy's general knowledge of postal matters and of some of the more
familiar rules of law warned her that she was skating on thin ice. Yet
her last letter had ventured rather far. In her first letter she had
merely signed with the initials, but this time she had boldly used
Hugo Ennis's name. She thought she would escape all danger of having
committed a forgery by simply printing the letters.
"And besides, there ain't any one can tell I ever wrote those
letters," she reassured herself, perhaps mistakenly. "If there's ever
any enquiry I'll stick to it that some one just dropped them in the
mail-box and I forwarded them as usual. When it comes to her answers
they'll all be in Box 17, unopened, and I can say I held them till
called for, according to rules. I never referred to them in what I
wrote. Just told her to come along and promised her all sorts of
things."
Again she waited impatiently for an answer, which never came. Instead
of it there was a telegram addressed to Hugo Ennis, which was of
course received by Follansbee, the station agent, who read it with
eyes rather widely opened. He transcribed the message and entrusted it
to big Stefan, the Swede, who now carried mail to a few outlying
camps.
"It's a queer thing, Stefan," commented Joe. "Looks like there's some
woman comin' all the way from New York to see yer friend Hugo."
"Vell, dat's yoost his own pusiness, I tank," answered the Swede,
placidly.
"Sure enough, but it's queer, anyways. Did he ever speak of havin'
some gal back east?"
"If he had it vould still be his own pusiness," asserted Stefan,
biting off a chew from a black plug and stowing away the telegram in a
coat pocket. Hugo Ennis was his friend. Anything that Hugo did was all
right. Folks who had anything to criticize in his conduct were likely
to incur Stefan's displeasure.
The big fellow's dog-team was ready. At his word they broke the
runners out of the snow, barking excitedly, but for the time being
they were only driven across the way to the post-office for the
mail-bag.
Sophy handed the pouch to him, her face none too agreeable.
"Dat all vhat dere is for Toumichouan?" asked the man.
"Yes, that's all," answered the girl, snappily. "There's a parcel here
for Papineau and a letter for Tom Carew's wife. If you see any one
going by way of Roaring River tell him to stop there and let 'em
know."
"You can gif 'em to me, too," said Big Stefan. "I'm goin' dat vay. I
got one of dem telegraft tings for Hugo Ennis."
Sophy rushed out from behind the counter.
"Let me see it!" she said.
"No, ma'am," said Stefan, calmly. "It is shut anyvays, de paper is.
Follansbee he youst gif it to me. I tank nobotty open dat telegraft
now till Hugo he get it."
He tucked the mail-bag and the parcel under one arm and went out,
placing the former in a box that was lashed to the toboggan. Then he
clicked at his dogs, who began to trot off easily towards the rise of
ground at the side of the big lake. It was a sheet of streaky white,
smooth or hummocky according to varying effects of wind and falling
levels. Far out on its surface he saw two black dots that were a pair
of ravens, walking in dignified fashion and pecking at some
indistinguishable treasure trove. At the summit of the rise he clicked
again and the dogs went on faster, the man running behind with the
tireless, flat-footed gait of the trained traveler of the wilderness.
In the meanwhile old McGurn was busy in the store and Sophy put on her
woollen _tuque_ and her mitts.
"I'm going over to the depot and see about that box of Dutch socks,"
she announced.
"'T ain't due yet," observed her father.
"I'm going to see, anyway," she answered.
In the station she found Joe Follansbee in his little office. The
telegraphic sounder was clicking away, with queer sudden interruptions,
in the manner that is so mysterious to the uninitiated.
"Are you busy, Joe?" she asked him, graciously.
"Sure thing!" answered the young fellow, grinning pleasantly. "There's
the usual stuff. The 4.19 is two hours late, and I've had one whole
private message. Gettin' to be a busy place, Carcajou is."
"Who's getting messages? Old man Symonds at the mill?"
"Ye'll have to guess again. It's a wire all the way from New York."
"What was it about, Joe?" she asked, in her very sweetest manner.
Indeed, the inflection of her voice held something in it that was
nearly caressing. Kid Follansbee had long admired her, but of late he
had been quite hopeless. He had observed the favor in which Ennis had
seemed to stand before the girl, and had perhaps been rather jealous.
It was pleasant to be spoken to so agreeably now.
"We ain't supposed to tell," he informed her, apologetically. "It's
against the rules. Private messages ain't supposed to be told to
anyone."
"But you'll tell me, Joe, won't you?" she asked again, smiling at
him.
It was a chance to get even with the man he deemed his rival and he
couldn't very well throw it away.
"Well, I will if ye'll promise not to repeat it," he said, after a
moment's hesitation. "It's some woman by the name of Madge who's wired
to Ennis she's coming."
"But when's she due, Joe?"
"It just says 'Leaving New York this evening. Please have some one to
meet me. Madge Nelson.'"
"For--for the land's sakes!"
She turned, having suddenly become quite oblivious of Joe, who was
staring at her, and walked back slowly over the hard-packed snow that
crackled under her feet in the intense cold.
"I--I don't care," she told herself, doggedly. "I--I guess she'll just
tear his eyes out when she finds out she's been fooled. She'll be
tellin' everybody and--and they'll believe her, of course, and--and
like enough they'll laugh at him, now, instead of me."
During this time Stefan rode his light toboggan when the snow was not
too hummocky, or when the grade favored his bushy-tailed and
long-nosed team. At other times he broke trail for them or, when the
old tote-road allowed, ran alongside. With all his fast traveling it
took him nearly three hours to reach the shack that stood on the bank,
just a little way below the great falls of Roaring River. Here he
abandoned the old road that was so seldom traveled since lumbering
operations had been stopped in that district, owing to the removal of
available pine and spruce. At a word from him the dogs sat down in
their traces, their wiry coats giving out a thin vapor, and he went
down the path to the log building. The door was closed and he had
already noted that no film of smoke came from the stove-pipe. While it
was evident that Ennis was not at home Stefan knocked before pushing
his way in. The place was deserted, as he had conjectured. Drawing off
his mitt he ascertained that the ashes in the stove were still warm.
There was a rough table of axe-hewn boards and he placed the envelope
on it, after which he kindled a bit of fire and made himself a cup of
hot tea that comforted him greatly. After this it took but a minute to
bind on his heavy snowshoes again and he rejoined his waiting dogs,
starting off once more in the hard frost, his breath steaming and once
more gathering icicles upon his short and stubby yellow moustache.
It was only in the dusk of the short winter's day that Hugo Ennis
returned to his home, carrying his gun, with Maigan scampering before
him. It was quite dark within the shack and he placed the bag that had
been on his shoulders upon the table of rough planks. After this he
drew off his mitts and unfastened his snowshoes after striking a light
and kindling the oil lamp. Then he pulled a couple of partridges and a
cold-stiffened hare out of the bag, which he then threw carelessly in
a corner. Whether owing to the dampness of melting snow or the
stickiness of fir-balsam on the bottom of the bag, the envelope Stefan
had left for him stuck to it and he never saw the telegram that had
been sent from the far-away city.