The
reporter had been glancing over the wireless forms, and his eyes were
shining with delight.
"Here is the last one," said Darrow, producing a crumpled yellow paper
from his pocket. "I went back after it."
"McCarthy: My patience is at an end. Your last warning will be sent
you at nine thirty this morning. If you do not sail on the Celtic at
noon I shall strike. You are of a stubborn and a stiff-necked
generation, but I am your lord and master, and my wrath shall be
visited on you. Begone, or you shall die the death."
"That bluffed him out," said Darrow, "and I don't blame him. Now,
Simmons," said he, turning to the operator, who had sat in utter silence,
"how about it? Are you with us, or against us?"
"How do you mean?" demanded Simmons.
"This," said Darrow sharply. "The time has passed for concealment. Every
message through the ether must now reach the public. We must send messages
back. The case is out of private hands; it has become important to the
people. Will you agree on your honor faithfully to transmit?" He leaned
forward, his indolent frame startlingly tense. "Are you afraid of
McCarthy?"
"He's been good to me--it's a family matter," muttered the operator.
"Well--" Darrow arose, crossed to the operator, and whispered to him for a
moment. "You see the seriousness--you are an intelligent man."
The operator turned pale.
"I hadn't thought of that," he muttered.
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