Give me the pad. Not _almost_ overborne. There are three
good days to work in, and, by the gods of Perdition, if Rod McCune sees
Congress it will be in his next incarnation!"
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.
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