At this point of his meditations, his eyes fell on an undelivered message lying on the key table before the operator. The former financier’s sharp eyes scanned it greedily. As he comprehended what the dispatch was, his brow clouded angrily. The message was for Paul Perkins, and read as follows:
“Things here satisfactory, but Washington moves slowly. On no account consider other offer. Confident I can put deal with government through. Merrill.”
“Phew!” whistled Hunt, in a low key. “So that’s the way the wind blows.” He wrinkled his brow for a minute in deep thought, and, as Mr. Hunt’s thoughts usually materialized speedily into action, he did not remain long in meditation. He pulled a “receiving blank” toward him and rapidly wrote on it. Then he slipped it in an envelope and, having written an address on it, pocketed it.
“Get my message off yet, Dibbs?” he inquired, although his sharp eyes had seen that the operator had not yet succeeded in raising the New York office.
“Nope,” responded Blinky, pounding away at “N. Y.”
“Well, I guess I’m off,” volunteered Mr. Hunt, with his most amiable smile. “Got any messages you wish delivered in the direction in which I’m going?”
“Which way is that?” asked Blinky, keeping up his clickety-click.
“Down Beach Street. I have some business at Paul Perkins’s house.”
“Say, that’s so!” exclaimed Blinky, galvanizing into remembrance. “I’ve got a message here for young Perkins. Would you mind taking it?”
“With pleasure,” declared Mr. Hunt, emphasizing his willingness with a smile of triumph. Dibbs had fallen into the trap almost too easily. A few minutes later Mr. Hunt strode out of the office and set off at a brisk pace for Paul Perkins’s home. In his pocket he carried the message from Washington, and he intended it should not leave that receptacle till he was ready to destroy it. Mr. Hunt whistled cheerily as he walked down the street. His chest swelled with exultation till the buttons of his overcoat were seriously strained. He felt that he had accomplished a stroke of real business.
A sound of hammering from the wagon house as he reached the inventive scout’s home apprised the astute plotter that the boy he was in search of was at work on the machine he desired so ardently to acquire. Without making his visit known to Mrs. Perkins, the father of Freeman Hunt softly walked over the withered turf to the wagon shed door, and the first thing Paul knew of his presence was when his dark shadow fell across the sheet of metal on which the lad was working.