Simply because the telegraph agent in Crawfordsville
belongs body and soul, bread and butter, to our esteemed friend Mr.
Oliver Swinnerton. Know Oliver personally? Capable man, charming host,
but the very devil to buck when he has his back aloft! And they tell
me that he is playing high this trip. It was just as well, don't you
think, that I sent that wire? Had Oliver known that this consignment
of hands was coming, and when they were coming--well, I don't know how
he would have managed it, but one way or another he would have come
mighty close to taking them off my hands. And now," whipping a big,
fat note-book from his pocket, "will you sign right there?"
Kent removed the cap from a gold-filigreed fountain-pen, handed it
with a bit of paper and the note-book to Conniston, and pointed out
where the signature was wanted. And Conniston set his name down under
a statement acknowledging the receipt from James Kent of five hundred
and five men, "in good and satisfactory shape."
"Thank you, Mr. Conniston," as he blotted and returned the document to
his breast pocket. "Perhaps, however, you would have preferred to have
counted before signing?"
"That's all right. I'll take your word for it. If there aren't five
hundred, there are as good as five hundred. And thank God, and you,
Jimmie Kent, that they are here!"
"Need 'em pretty bad? Well, I'm glad I got 'em to you in time.
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