It's like playing with a live wire. My nervous system
won't stand many more such shocks as those they gave us this
morning."
Gordon threw himself down dejectedly in a chair in the office,
and Stedman approached his instrument gingerly, as though it
might explode.
"He's swearing again," he explained, sadly, in answer to
Gordon's look of inquiry. "He wants to know when I am going
to stop running away from the wire. He has a stack of
messages to send, he says, but I guess he'd better wait and
take your copy first; don't you think so?"
"Yes, I do," said Gordon. "I don't want any more messages
than I've had. That's the best I can do," he said, as he
threw his manuscript down beside Stedman. "And they can keep
on cabling until the wire burns red hot, and they won't get
any more."
There was silence in the office for some time, while Stedman
looked over Gordon's copy, and Gordon stared dejectedly out at
the ocean.
"This is pretty poor stuff, Gordon," said Stedman. "It's like
giving people milk when they want brandy."
"Don't you suppose I know that?" growled Gordon. "It's the
best I can do, isn't it? It's not my fault that we are not
all dead now.
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