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Updated: May 2, 2025
The faithful pocket-ledger was filling rapidly with notes and phrases, brisk and trenchant, set down with no specific purpose; almost mechanically, in fact, but destined to future uses. Mallory, himself no mean connoisseur of the tumultuous and flagrant city, would perhaps have found matter foreign to his expert apprehension could he have seen and translated the pages of 3 T 9901.
"Tha-anks," drawled the young man. He was turning away to his new duties when a thought struck him. "Making a list?" he asked. "Yes. For my report." "Got a name with the initials I. O. W.?" Banneker ran through the roster in the pocket-ledger. "Not yet. Some one that's hurt?" "Don't know what became of her. Peach of a girl. Black hair, big, sleepy, black eyes with a fire in 'em. Dressed right.
"Can you run three miles?" "I fancy so." "Will you take an urgent message to be wired from Manzanita?" "Certainly," said the youth with good-will. Tearing a leaf from his pocket-ledger, Banneker scribbled a dispatch which is still preserved in the road's archives as giving more vital information in fewer words than any other railroad document extant.
The town, as he came to conceive it, was a fevered and struggling gnome, bound to a wheel which ground for others; a gnome who, if he broke his bonds, would be perhaps only the worse for his freedom. At the beginning of the sixth day, for his stay had outgrown its original plan, the pocket-ledger, 3 T 9901, was but little the richer, but the mind of its owner teemed with impressions.
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