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Chester threw down his papers, pushed back his chair, and rose, tragic purpose on his face. "It is not to be borne," he ejaculated. "Oh, very well," stuttered Mr. Strangman, "that means, I suppose, that I shall have to do the 'phoning myself. Here, boy, get out, give me that." And thereupon the message started over again, but this time breathed in Mr. Strangman's powerful whisper.
One of Mr. Strangman's most agitated moods held him. It was a custom just founded by Strangman and it saved a certain amount of time, but Chester a thin, over-worked, intellectual-ridden gentleman, was driven nearly mad by occult messages, such as the following: "Hulloa, hulloa, is that telegrams? Take a message please for the Evening Herald. What, can't hear?
For Joan the evening was a dream; to-morrow morning she would wake, put on her old blue coat and skirt, catch her bus at the corner of the square and spend the day in sorting and arranging Mr. Strangman's papers. To-night she was content to watch the bubble held before her by this man's soft words, his strange, intent eyes; she made no attempt to investigate it too closely.
At that last stage on the road to Tanana came out a young man from the mission with a dog team and an Indian, anxious at our long delay, and Harry Strangman's name is written here with grateful recognition of this kindness and many others. We went joyfully into town on the morrow, the 17th of January, having taken fifteen days to make a journey that is normally made in five.
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