Touch

Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.

ARTHUR B. REEVE

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE SIX SENSES
SIGHT—SMELL—TASTE—TOUCH— HEARING—SIXTH

TOUCH

RGL e-Book Cover^©

First published in Flynn's, 21 Feb 1925

Reprinted in Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine, 25 Oct 1925

Collected in "The Fourteen Points,"
Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1925

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2022
Version Date: 2022-02-23

Produced by Art Lortie, Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

Click here for more Craig Kennedy stories

Flynn's, 21 Feb 1925, with "Touch"

"The Fourteen Points," Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1925

Illustration from "Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine."

"Butler's here to-night," Tibbetts whispered—"over in that corner."

"I know that, Walter. But I thought you might get Mr. Kennedy interested. I need help desperately."

"So, 'Fat' Barr deserted you—ran away with another woman. I'm so sorry to hear that. But why have you waited ten years, Mary? He might be dead and buried by this time."

Mary Barr shook her head, did not answer immediately. Over by the laboratory window, she was glancing anxiously at the door, now and then, for Kennedy.

I noticed now the lines that time and many troubles had drawn on her face. Of medium height, a trifle thin, she seemed tired, weary of everything. Possibly her tiredness was more of the spirit than of the body, but that made it worse. Yet she still possessed that wonderful auburn hair. Her blue eyes had still some of the old snap and fire in them. Her complexion was just as milky white as ever. But there was a little droop at the corners of the mouth. In the old days she was always smiling.

Kennedy swung breezily into the room. I saw Mary Barr brace up. I knew she was calling on all her reserve force, smothering pride, to meet this ordeal of baring her troubles to a stranger.

Craig stopped suddenly as he caught sight of his visitor. It was only a moment, and the formality of introduction was over. There stole over his face one of those slow smiles, the kind that starts at the corners of the mouth and works up to the eyes. I think that smile of Kennedy's might have been valuable enough to insure. It was an absolute asset in his profession. It inspired confidence, and that was the foundation of Kennedy's success.

A minute and I was starting to tell him as much of Mary's story as I knew. For I remembered her romance well. As a very young girl she had come to the Star, had been there when I joined the staff of reporters. Mary Baker, as she then was, had been one of the best operators in the telegraph room. During her time the favorable rating of other telegraphers in the wire room depended on their comparison with Mary Baker.

I recalled there had been some disappointment on the part of the staff of the Star of those days when Mary announced her forthcoming marriage to Jim Barr. Somehow we felt that, with her personality, Mary should have picked a richer plum off the matrimonial tree. But then, Barr was popular, apparently good-natured, and showed all the evidence of being head over heels in love with Mary. He was a telegrapher, too, and a mighty good one, an expert, and it was he who used to be called on to send the world series, the big football games—in fact, on any occasion where speed and accuracy and a pile of work demanded the top-notcher. Everybody knew him as "Fat" Barr, and liked him. He was a living example of the fallacy that "nobody likes a fat man." To Mary the name had been only a nickname, not an adjective.

I was in the midst of telling Craig about Mary Barr when he raised his hand. "If you don't mind, Walter, I would rather have Mrs. Barr tell her own story."

I nodded. Mary Barr fumbled with her bag for a moment, silent, as if considering just where to begin and what to tell. Then she looked up directly, frankly into Craig's eyes.

"Mr. Kennedy, if it weren't for my boy, my poor little crippled son, I wouldn't be here. 'Fat' Barr would never be disturbed for myself alone. But Buster Barr needs a father just now, if ever any boy did."

Kennedy nodded gravely. This was a case of mother need. My hopes ran high for his acceptance of Mary's case.

"It was a matter of a sudden bit of good fortune—and another woman," went on Mary, tremulously. "Jim and I always lived in a nice apartment, simple but in a good neighborhood. On the floor below us lived a couple by the name of Rice. They had no children and Frank Rice was a traveling man. You know what that meant. There was little work to do in that apartment below me. All Fanny Rice had to do was dress and make herself look pretty.

"I had a baby boy to take care of, the apartment, and meals to prepare for a man who believed in eating. I couldn't help knowing my neighbors. You don't need any introduction when there is a baby around. They speak to the baby and to you. That's how I met Fanny Rice.

"I was pleased over her interest in Buster. I didn't think about having a good-looking husband. Jim wasn't too heavy to be attractive, and he was jolly. Before I knew it Fanny Rice was up in my apartment a good deal of the time. And she didn't leave when Jim came home. Often that meant asking her to stay to dinner. I got tired of it, but Jim enjoyed her jokes and liveliness.

"Fanny was always beautifully dressed. I suppose it was a study in contrasts—hot damp curls clinging to my face and a smooth blonde marcelled wave on her. It's no wonder, I guess, he turned most of the time to Fanny. I didn't have the clothes, couldn't afford them and couldn't have worn them under the circumstances if I had had them.

"It was easy for Fanny. Jim started to stay out late nights, and then somehow Fanny's calls became less frequent. Just about this time an uncle of Jim's died and left him about fifteen thousand dollars. Then Fanny stopped calling on me and changed her tactics and went out to places with Jim openly. It was like a defiance to the world. That went on for a couple of weeks. Then they both disappeared, left New York.

"She went away a few days before Jim. But neither Frank Rice nor I have seen them since. That is, until about a month ago. I met Frank Rice. He told me he was sure they were in Texas, that he had heard of a fellow, through a friend, in some little jerkwater Texas town, known as Baiting Hollow. Fat was always talking about Texas. Got it from the movies, I guess. I thought that would be the place they'd travel to on account of Jim always wanting a ranch down there. It seems I was right."

"In New York, when he isn't on the road. He never tried to get a divorce—held off for spite. That wasn't my reason. I was thinking of my boy. If anything should ever happen to me before he grew up, the boy would have more chance if Jim had no other legal wife living."

Mary was glancing absently away. "It was an awful shock to me at first. But, like most things, time heals the wounds. You know it's the wrong one does that eats like a canker—not the wrongs that are done to one."

"No. I couldn't hunt him. I had to hunt work. The actual matter of living took most of my attention in those days—bread and butter, and a roof over my head and Buster's. I didn't have the money or time to hunt with, and I did have pride. If Jim could leave me for another woman—well, let him have her. I wouldn't be the one to beg him to come back.... Then, as the years went on, I wondered at my own apathy. Possibly there had been something wrong with my capacity for loving that I couldn't hold Jim. I gave him the benefit of the doubt in my argument with myself and left him alone. Before I was married I used to think what wasn't worth fighting for wasn't worth having. You see, Jim had sunk pretty low in my estimation."

Mary Barr leaned back a moment as if trying to gain strength to tell the rest, then began again. "Now I have come to my worst sorrow, Mr. Kennedy. It is over my boy. I can sink all my pride, all my self-respect, anything, if I can do him any good.... A month ago he was as well as a boy could be, an active boy, intelligent.

"We just lived for each other. Of course Buster asked me where his father was, why he did not live with us. I told him the truth. Instinctively the little fellow resented his father's actions and, if that were possible, gave me more of his childish affection. Buster and I were pals.

"Then this accident occurred. Buster was out playing with some other children. An automobile, a reckless driver—that tells the story. They got him. No money. A jail sentence. But Buster hasn't walked since. There's something wrong with his spine. Another operation is necessary, one that can be performed only by the most skillful surgeons. His recovery from it is cot assured, but there are hopes if he has it done that possibly in a year or so he'd be able to walk.

"Even after the operation it means that the child must be flat on his back for months. Buster is willing to do anything—the bravest little spirit in the bravest little body I ever knew." Tears were trickling down Mary's face, unashamed tears, over her boy's suffering. "But Buster has my hopefulness. It is the only thing that keeps us both going, just now. Mr. Kennedy, don't you think that boy's father should be made to help?"

"I do." Craig was emphatic. "And I'll help you find him. If you write, or if you start inquiries down in Texas through strangers, he may find out, pull up, and leave. Then you'd be no better off—worse, with the useless expense. You seem to feel that from Frank Rice you have a genuine clue?"

"Could you go down to Texas with Walter and me?" asked Craig, with a slight hesitation.

"Why, yes. I could leave Buster in the hospital. I have money enough for that and to see me through the Texas trip. After that, though, I'm broke. I've had to spend so much of my savings on Buster since the accident."

Kennedy nodded, appreciating Mary's financial frankness, and I rather admired her for it.

"It was in this town of Baiting Hollow that Frank Rice last heard of Jim Barr," he repeated, thoughtfully.

"Yes; he had a ranch near it. He also heard he had taken another name, Butler, Henry Butler. When he told me about it first I thought he had got the information to fight back at Fanny. But he doesn't seem to care much about her, either, now. The only thing he said was, rather bitterly, 'Fanny broke me before she left; she'll break him!' They don't call him 'Fat' any more, I believe. He's no longer fat; just stocky. Possibly Fanny has started to worry him a little. I wasn't thinking of that so much, though, as that it might make it a bit more difficult to identify him. I'm glad you'll go with me, for if Jim has changed so, how will I hang it on him if he denies me and disowns Buster?"

Mary had a worried, apprehensive look. Kennedy just patted her arm lightly by way of encouragement. "Go home and get ready. Make the boy comfortable while you are away. I'll get the transportation and all that."

AT once Kennedy and I hustled into making arrangements for this sudden trip. Between us it was easy. Buster was to stay at the hospital. And Craig was not too busy to plan a little surprise for the injured boy. He picked out a couple of armfuls of boy stories for the nurses to read to him, some joke books, some toys and puzzles suitable for a youngster who has to lie on his back all day while he is waiting for his mother to come home. It was a pleasure to select those things for Buster, pack them into the car, and drive up to the hospital with them.

It would have been hard to tell who was the happier, the boy or his mother. "Mr. Kennedy, I can't express my thanks! I wanted to do something like that, but I couldn't afford it." Mary turned her face away. It is hard to see another man, a stranger, doing for a child those thoughtful things the boy's father should have done.

As for Buster, it was difficult to describe the pleasure of the child. When one is strapped in bed, must lie on a little back that gets very tired from one's lying in the same position, the smiles are likely to be wan. Only the great luminous eyes showing the brave soul within responded. They were agleam with boyish pleasure. Over the pale white hand Mary's lay in an affectionate clasp. It was easy to see where the boy got his indomitable spirit and infinite patience. Mother and son had the same inspired features, the same hair, the same brave eyes. I made up my mind then that even if Buster received help from his father, I, for one, was going to remember that little lad who was putting up such a fight for his mother's happiness.

It was said quite earnestly. In fact, his mother's welfare on this trip seemed to be his sole thought. His own loneliness was forgotten.

I often wonder why it is that such children are taken away from us, or, if they are allowed to remain, so often join the ranks of life's sufferers.

Now and then we find some human feeling in this sophisticated modern world. When I went down and told them back on the Star staff about Mary Barr and her boy, the Star agreed to finance the trip. It was an errand of mercy and a mark of respect to Mary. Her feelings were mixed over the trip. She appreciated the kindly intentions, but wouldn't take a cent herself.

"But, Walter," she exclaimed, "how good it is to know that all of the Star is backing Buster and me!"

As we passed the boundary of each state, she seemed elated. It meant that her trip was just that much nearer being completed.

WE had found that the nearest sizable city to Baiting Hollow was Junction City. Accordingly we stopped there.

"Mary, you must stay here," decided Kennedy. "We'll get you a comfortable room in some hotel, and for the present your chief duty will be writing encouraging letters to Buster and lying low."

She understood. "I think that is a good idea, myself. If Jim Bare saw me he would know that something was in the air. He might make a get-away."

"Yes; and he will be less likely to see you here than if you went on with us to Baiting Hollow." Kennedy stopped at Mary's serious look. "What is the matter?"

"Simply this. If I'm compelled to stay here many days, I'll have to get some work to do. I can't take any money from anyone for my maintenance—and I haven't very much myself."

Kennedy smiled indulgently at her discomfiture. "Well, Mary, if you had to get in debt to the Star, I'm sure they would take a note and let you renew it indefinitely until you could pay it. But I think, under the circumstances, the idea of a job is good. For a while there'll be nothing you can do but wait, and that is a mighty hard thing to do. You'd probably be less nervous working at something congenial than you'd be sitting around the hotel, wondering what in the world we are doing. I'll try to get you a temporary job somewhere as a telegraph operator before we go on to Baiting Hollow. How about that?"

Mary expressed her approval. I respected her quixotic independence. In these days such a spirit was unique.

By a fortunate chance it happened to be fair time in Junction City. The annual county fair was just about to open and we found that the local telegraph office at the railroad station was short-handed. It did not even take influence to place Mary. The district manager was only too glad to pick up an expert operator temporarily.

BAITING HOLLOW was not much of a place as to size, but the people seemed prosperous enough. Main Street could not boast of a large number of places of business, but there were enough stores and they looked prosperous. This was a money-making country. Still it was real country yet and the people were just plain folks, mostly old stock.

We sought out the only hotel the town boasted. Fortunately, although it was small it was quite modern. The old one had been burned the year before. Kennedy and I engaged rooms.

I knew that Craig had made no definite plan of campaign. I felt that he was going to let conditions and circumstances guide him largely in this search.

It was not long before we were chatting with Peck, the clerk, an affable sort of chap with a Texas breeziness about him. Kennedy was making random inquiries, engaging Peck principally in harmless gossip concerning the region and the more important ranchers settled in it.

"Are there many cattle-raisers in Baiting Hollow just now?" he asked. "I should think, with the county fair at Junction City, they would begin to come in."

"Oh, there's a lot of 'em. Some go in for hogs, others for cattle, and 'most all the ranches breed horses to some extent. We're a busy lot down here. Why, I suppose some of the men take more time off during this coming week than they do all the rest of the year. They go up to that fair every day to see what the other fellow is doing with his live stock. It's a great place to get information—and talk politics."

"Oh yes. A good many. There ought to be some of the ranchers coming in to-night with their families, or alone with their men. Most of the cattle to be exhibited have been sent to Junction City to the fair grounds already."

"Somehow I've always wanted to own a ranch," confided Kennedy. "I've read of them, and once during a college vacation I spent the summer on one. I wish I wasn't such a stranger. I might look over some of the big ones around here."

I suppressed a smile. The clerk nodded sympathetically. "Why don't you hang around here at the desk? There'll surely be some of the ranch owners here this afternoon. I'll be glad to make you acquainted. Hello, Tibbetts! Got time to meet a couple of strangers?"

The clerk was genial, and there was no doubt of his popularity among the patrons of the new hotel. A tall, lanky individual in a wide-rimmed hat, prosperous-looking, strode over with that gait acquired from constant sitting in the saddle. He shook hands heartily.

"Comin' to the fair at the Junction? I've some mighty fine cattle on show. Mustn't miss them." Tibbetts was as hearty in his words as in his handshake. He seemed interested just to talk cattle, with Kennedy ready to listen.

"Nigh all of them. But they'll have to go some, sir, to beat my white-faced beauties." Tibbetts added with pride. "They're the purtiest things you ever laid eyes on."

"I suppose this is a sort of halfway house between the ranches up country and the fair," I suggested, glancing about.

Tibbetts nodded. Kennedy seized upon my question. "Do all the men leave the ranches before the fair is over?"

The cattle man shook his head an emphatic yes. "Stranger, those men couldn't be held down this time o' year. It's almost a patriotic duty with them. All day before the stalls cocky cowboys will be showing off the good points of the cattle from their ranches. But the big day is the day after to-morrow. Then the boys have contests, mighty interesting, I should think, to you Easterners—roping cattle, riding horses, and breaking in peppy little pintos. We call it a rodeo. I don't know what you folks'd call it, but we think it's lots of fun. And how the boys enjoy it!"

"I should like to see one, and I shall. How do they train for those things, and when?" asked Kennedy, enthusiastically.

"On the ranches, and every day at their work. Our men are having a big time this afternoon getting ready for to-morrow. That's the opening. I'm on my way to get things started the first day at the fair. Such a combin' and brushin' up of ponies you never saw. And every last one of my men's tryin' to outdo the others in lookin' wild and woolly!"

"Would you? My folks are here at the hotel. This far. I'd kind of like to take another look at the boys myself. I'm a jealous rancher, at fair time. Dixie Ranch has had its colors up for more points than any other ranch these three years. And the boys are determined to win again. It's gointer to be hard this year. Down at Vic Lowndes's ranch they're bettin' heavy. Must have somethin' up their sleeve. Hen Butler's men are out to win, too. Oh, everybody's stirred up. More fussin' over winnin' than a hive of bees gettin' used to a new queen. Yes, sir, though the folks has got so far, I wouldn't mind takin' a look at the men getting ready for the rodeo again. I'll take you out to my ranch in my little car. She can travel."

Kennedy and I exchanged a glance at mention of Butler's name. He decided to take advantage of Tibbetts's offer. We got in the little car and Tibbetts made good. It could travel and he wasn't afraid to let it out.

"That's Lowndes's ranch," he pointed out, after riding what seemed half across a state, but in Texas was merely half across a county, "a pretty one. His father handed it down to him and I think Vic has even more cattle sense than the old man had, and he was smart enough. Lowndes is on one side of me and Butler is on the other. Both are fine, but Butler's not so old. Going strong for a youngster, though." Tibbetts laughed good-naturedly at his own humor. "Yes, sir. After we stop at Dixie I'll stop over at Butler's and see if he is home. He used to live in the East, years ago. He might like to get a little news from the East, first hand. You'll like him most everybody does. The boys on his ranch like him mighty well. They like him better than the missus," and he chuckled softly to himself.

I wondered what that chuckle might mean. Also I began to wonder whether "Fat" Barr's affinity had turned out a shrew. If so, possibly Frank Rice and Mary both had done the right thing. I thought of Mr. Kipling's lines: "Let him take her and keep her; it's hell for them both!"

DIXIE RANCH was like many others, teeming with excitement, elemental. There was not much chance for culture or fine clothes, but wonderful opportunity to meet real men. With it all there was a sort of holiday feel in the air. Work had relaxed slightly—never altogether on a ranch.

Out in the yards we met many of the men. Tibbetts was a big cattle raiser, one of the largest in Texas, and employed many men. Even the ponies seemed to be on their mettle, beautiful beasts with fiery, impatient eyes, yet knowing the will of their masters. To-morrow was opening, but the big day was still to come after that at the fair. They were putting on finishing touches for that. It was a helter-skelter entertainment, almost like trying to watch all three rings in a circus. Wherever there was a man and a horse there one could see some unusual stunt, muscles of horse and rider working in perfect harmony to achieve it.

It was regretfully that I left Dixie Ranch. But there was a kick in the idea that Tibbetts put forward.

"Had enough of Dixie for one day?" he smiled. "You can come back here again. It's getting late. On the way around back to the Hollow I'd like to take you over to Butler's."

Kennedy had been quietly hinting at and promoting the idea. Now it came out as the spontaneous fruit of the hospitality of Tibbetts.

It was about five miles away, by detour, and it seemed as if that little car flew. I couldn't help thinking that if Tibbetts represented the drivers out here, they were much more particular over the lives of their cattle than over their own. Reckless though it seemed, nothing happened.

THE Butler place looked newer than Dixie Ranch. The house was more modern, rather fussy in appearance. It made me think of those people who use the word "swell." With them elegance never means simplicity, no matter how elegant simplicity may be. It was just "swell."

It seemed quiet about the place. Only from the cattle yards came any evidence of life at all. Thence we heard voices and the lowing of cattle. Finally a man came forward to greet us. He was rather awkward and slender. I knew that wasn't Hen Butler.

"Mr. Butler's not here now, sir. He's over to Baiting Hollow, I allows. Somewhars. I don't know whar. Any word, Mr. Tibbetts?"

"No, no word, Duke. Just brought over a couple of friends to see the place.... S'long, Duke!"

We were off again. "Calc'late we might as well be gettin' along back to that hotel. Might meet Butler over there to-night. Can't tell. The crowd goes to bed early. Have to. Everybody's up at four at least to get an early start for Junction City.... Y' see we loosen up after the prizes is awarded." He winked and poked Kennedy in the ribs with a long, slender, friendly finger and laughed loudly.

IT was after nightfall when we reached the hotel. Tibbetts scanned the crowd carefully for his nearest two neighbors. Vic Lowndes we met and liked. But Butler hadn't showed up, at least not yet. He might have gone on direct to Junction City, I hazarded. But the clerk, Peck, insisted not, that he was somewhere in Baiting Hollow and would make the hotel his headquarters.

I was disappointed. But Kennedy was ready to make the best of it. "We know there is a Henry Butler," he observed. "We know where he lives when he's home. Even if we can't find him in Baiting Hollow to-night, we may do so to-morrow. And we know a man who knows both of us, now. That will remove suspicion from his mind, if he has any."

We met many people that night, but no Hen Butler. We heard enough about him and his men. They were known to be a determined lot, set on carrying home the most of the prizes. All evening we absorbed rodeo gossip, comparisons of the star lariat man of this ranch with the star of another—horses, cattle, men, all jumbled together in a medley of excited conversation.

One had to know as much about cattle and Texas to feel at home in this atmosphere as one had to know smart society and smart homes to feel at case in exclusive social circles in New York. Only, down here, there was this difference. In Baiting Hollow one spoke of horses and men familiarly in order to gain prestige for oneself. In New York one must be on terms of intimacy with matrons of the smart set. In Texas, men ruled society. In New York, women.

He was impatient, though not anxious. But I was so restless that I could scarcely sleep in the strange surroundings. Toward morning, when I might have put in a bit of sleep, it seemed to me as if all Texas was stirring in that hotel. There was a tremendous commotion, getting the people off, commands to animals, salutes to one another, a good-natured bedlam. I got up and dressed, but not before Kennedy.

The upshot of it all was that we went to the fair with the others. It seemed as if all the county was there, and a couple of adjoining counties. There was something doing every minute and in the excitement we were separated from Tibbetts and did not meet Butler. But Kennedy had promised to meet Tibbetts at the hotel in Baiting Hollow that night and we were hoping Butler would be there then, too.

THE little hotel was crowded when we arrived. We looked in at the dining room. It was full and everyone 'Seemed to be talking at once, with much laughter. It was a mixed crowd, but amiable. Now and then a newcomer would saunter in, somebody who had won a prize, and there would be a cheer and a shout.

Over in one corner there seemed to be a crowd louder even than the rest. I wondered who they were and was wishing Tibbetts was here to let us in on who those various local celebrities were. Just then a booming voice shouted our names.

"Kennedy! Jameson! Right over here!" It was Tibbetts himself calling us. He and his party were seated next to the hilarious crowd.

Tibbetts had places for us in a moment. The hospitality to strangers down here, if they made a favorable first impression, was amazing. Nothing was too good for us. It was delightful to meet such warm-hearted folks. I hated to be playing a game among them.

"Butler's here to-night," Tibbetts whispered. "Over in that comer. Celebratin'. He's happy to-night. His men carried off a good many prizes, but my cattle got most of the honors. Glory for Butler's men, but reputation and money for my ranch. That's how it sizes up. Next year we'll get everything. The boys are talking it up already. I'd like to have you meet Hen. He's kind o' lively now. You can overlook that. You can't blame a man for celebratin' once in a while." I looked over in the direction Tibbetts was looking. "Hey, Butler!"

Butler raised his hand and beckoned us over. It took only a few minutes to tell how we had missed him at his ranch the night before. Butler evidently felt it was up to him. His cordiality to friends of Tibbetts's rivaled the native-born Texan's. He was full of joy at the victory for the men of his ranch. It was the chief topic of conversation at his table.

Kennedy began by flattering him subtly, especially when Tibbetts was called away by a new arrival. I watched Craig working on Butler in spite of carrying on at the same time a most engrossing talk with the champion rope thrower of the day. I was thoroughly enjoying myself. These people, the majority of them, were honest and sincere. Living close to the earth and homely things, their ambitions and desires were simple and honest, too. It was the same with the women as with the men—those that we met during the day.

Praise of the town of Baiting Hollow and the county by Kennedy was followed by an invitation for another visit to the Butler ranch. "Meet the people here," he urged. "Buy up a place somewhere near by and settle down among us. We'll be glad to have you with us."

"I'll consider it, Butler. I'd have to look around a little bit more, however. When I get my ranch it means quite a large investment. I want a good one. It won't do to step into a big thing like a ranch lightly. It takes thought and capital."

"Well, I wasn't always a rancher, either. But now that I am, I want to be one always." Butler declaimed it loudly and his men cheered him. "Don't you want to come out to my place to-night? I'll take you out with me after the fun is over here."

"I'd like to go," hesitated Craig. "But I have some important matters before I go to bed. I must go down to the railroad station. I have a couple of telegrams to file and I must make two or three long-distance calls."

"Get the stuff off, then I'll take you out in my car. The boys want to go home and have a little celebrating with those there, too. They're starting soon. I'll take you over to the station and then we'll skip out in my car."

Kennedy agreed. "I'll telephone here at the hotel in the booth in the lobby before we start. Walter, we'd better throw some things together, we might need tonight."

Outside and apart, Kennedy paused. "Now, Walter, if you want things to happen fast, you've got to help me make them move. I'm going to telephone Mary at her hotel. She expects a call from me after dinner. You can throw anything you want into a suit case. I don't think we'll need it. But your first job is a real one. You'll have something on your hands, all right. Before I reach the station, in about fifteen minutes, with Butler, I want you to get that operator away from the key, away from the station. Keep him away for half an hour if you can. You remember him as we came in from the train? They tell me his name is Rinehart, very faithful, always on the job."

"Well, what do you suppose I'm going to do with him? Grab him by his collar, lift him out of his chair before the key, and carry him off?"

"That's one way. But you're a resourceful reporter. I've seen you use ingenuity and tact on assignments for the Star."

Kennedy flattered me. I made up my mind then to get Rinehart away if I had to use force, but I began to see a better way, safer.

"I'll be back with Butler as soon as I telephone. We'll be at the telegraph office in probably fifteen or twenty minutes. Now get busy."

IT was a dark night. The moon had not come up yet. The lights in the hotel and the mirth looked good to me. I would much rather have stayed. But I went along, turning over in my mind a half-formed scheme. Leaving the hotel, I avoided a group of young chaps, men off the various ranches, and sought the station. But that skylarking crowd gave me an idea, too.

The station was not very large or pretentious, but it also was new. The railroad telegrapher occupied a little office in the front of the building, away from the waiting room. I sauntered into the station. It was deserted. There was more fun to-night up at Junction City or down at the hotel in fair time. Ordinarily, though, Baiting Hollow was much like other country towns. The station and incoming and outgoing trains afforded periodical village excitement.

I looked around. From the distant office could hear the click! click! of the telegraph instrument. I looked through the grating. The operator was there, all right, taking messages.

Casually I sauntered outside the station again. It excited no suspicion. There was no one much to be excited. In fact it was still a quarter of an hour before the last train for Junction City would pass through.

Once outside, I walked slowly down the railroad track. I must have gone a couple of hundred yards when I stopped to look about. There was what I had been seeking—a shack for storing tools and repair paraphernalia. I looked in. There also was what I had hoped to find—a coil of wire.

I looked about me in every direction again and listened in the darkness. I seemed to be entirely alone. Now I could see my way to get that telegrapher, the faithful Rinehart, out of the station office. Those cattlemen had helped along my idea. This wire showed how to do it.

I threw off my coat, unwound a hundred feet or so from the coil. Telegraph wire is recalcitrant stuff to handle. Besides that, I was nervous. I expected any minute to have someone come along, find me up to some trick.

When I had unwound what I thought would be sufficient, it had been my idea to throw it high enough to catch on the telegraph wire overhead. I had not reckoned with that most cantankerous inanimate thing to handle, a coil of wire. My hands were sore and my patience giving out. Every minute now meant success or failure for Kennedy's plan, whatever it was. The wire bent and twisted and squirmed in every direction, got tangled with things in the dark, did everything except what I wanted.

There was nothing else for me to do but to climb that nearest telegraph pole in the dark, with a loop of this unruly wire about my waist. I was glad there was no one in the daylight to guy me. But I was really exasperated at Kennedy. I was supposed to be a newspaperman, not an amateur lineman. I think my exasperation must have given roe some agility. I managed to get up that pole until I found there were some insecure cleats fastened to it. With perspiration seeping from every pore and my hair falling into my eyes, it was some relief when I was able to grasp the cross-piece at the top of the pole.

I felt along from one insulator to another. To make sure I swung the wire over all of the wires, carefully looping it loosely on one so that an extra smart yank from below would free it from all, then I dropped it to the ground.

There were footsteps approaching. I almost held my breath. Would I be found out, now, in that ridiculous, monkey-on-a-stick perch on the top of a telegraph pole? What explanation could I give? Quite naturally, the passersby saw nothing. I had forgotten about the darkness. It seemed as if a thousand eyes penetrated it to see me—eyes that I could not see. Then I began to think, this was my scheme, not Kennedy's. In the blackness Kennedy himself would not likely have seen me up there. And why be vexed at him? He had told me to get Rinehart away—he had said nothing about climbing a telegraph pole.

I slid down carefully. That was as bad as going up. A cleat gave under me, the lowest, and I went down like a greased pig the rest of the way. I was dirty and dusty and my hands were bleeding. But I did not mind that as I completed my job. The Baiting Hollow wire was grounded along with whatever others the pole carried. No message would go over it, now. And with my yarn already made up to tell Rinehart at the station, I knew that nothing would keep that conscientious telegrapher from flying out of his office the moment I sprang it.

With my handkerchief I mopped my face, managed to get some of the dirt and blood from my hands, straightened my hair a bit, and crushed my hat down on my head. Then I hurried back into the station.

There was no need for me to assume a part to fit with my story. I was made up for it. No one was standing in front of the station or in the waiting room, though there were some on the platform by this time. Thus I made sure that no one had observed me on my first visit and could spoil my second.

I hurried over to the telegraph window. There I heard Rinehart mumbling and swearing to himself, moving around. Then the little wicket door that opened from his room to the rest of the station opened hurriedly.

"This is no laughing matter, sir! Trains go through here. The lives of passengers are in danger when anything goes wrong with the railroad telegraph lines." The little man was dead in earnest, as he should be, took his job seriously, personally.

"I know it," I hastened. "That is the reason I've run all the way back here to tell you. There's a bunch of fellows, men of Bar Ten ranch, skylarking down the line. They made me do an old-time tenderfoot dance. The idea's this. I heard one of 'em make a bet he could clip a telegraph wire at fifty paces in the dark if they'd let him spot it with his automobile searchlight."

"I don't know. I beat it when they forgot me. But I heard shooting as I ran away. I was afraid they did. I came here. Did they?"

"Oh, about half a mile down the line." I waved in the opposite direction from where I had made my little plant.

Rinehart ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. "My Gawd! man, what shall I do? Number 247 goes through here soon, is due at 9:05. What if they are trying to send me any orders for her? How many of those devils did you say there were?" he asked, anxiously.

"About a dozen of them. I don't think they realize the seriousness of their offense. They have been to the fair and are all lit up like a church. I beat it as fast as I could to warn you, but it seems I was too late. I'm sorry."

Rinehart grabbed his hat. "All this devilment! I got to go out now and repair that break. And just now, at fair time, of all times, when traffic on the wire is heaviest—and a train due! Do you want to help me out, partner? Hang around this office a minute. If anybody comes to see about anything just explain where I've gone and what I'm doing. I'm not supposed to leave the damn place. But what's the use staying in it if the line is interrupted?"

THE station door slammed and he disappeared in the darkness. For a few minutes I watched him walking down the track, followed him by the light of his oil lantern. I must confess I felt a sort of contrition for causing all this trouble. But when a vision of that pain-wracked little boy flashed through my mind, of the sorrowing, troubled mother, I fully determined to finish this job successfully.

Now I felt safe to run back to the place where I had strung the wire over the line. I slipped out and hurried up the track in the other direction. It was much easier to pull that wire off the others than it had been to get it over them. In an incredibly short time I was back again in the station.

The telegraph was ticking busily again. I had been a little worried for fear I might have done something to put the wire out of commission. Now I could hardly wait until Kennedy arrived with Butler. I was going to let Kennedy assume, then, the whole responsibility. He had instigated it and if there was any trouble over it he would have to get us both out of it.

Meanwhile I was going into the waiting room to wash my hands and make myself a little more presentable before the arrival of Kennedy and Butler. I felt better. Also I had a feeling of elation at my successful ruse. Rinehart was out of the way.

Soon I heard the honking of a horn. It was Kennedy and Butler, and Butler was impatient to be off. I watched the hilarity of Butler, I must confess, with a little scorn. I wondered, also, at Kennedy's plan. Now that I had the telegrapher out, what was he going to do? What was the purpose of my activity? My mind was conjecturing alt sorts of things. Was he going to kidnap Butler on the train, force him back as far as Junction City to confront Mary? What had he done to identify Butler? Nothing.

Was Butler indeed the right man? There was one thing certain. Mary would not be able to get down here to Baiting Hollow. There weren't any more trains. The only other train was the 9:05 to Junction City none from it. Well, I would know soon, for they were coming in.

I noticed, as he stood there, that his clothes had a good deal more attention given them than many of the ranchers out here gave. That made me think he was Fat Barr, with his Eastern care of his clothes.

Kennedy looked at me with a question in his eyes. He found the answer in my returning glance. His face lighted hopefully. He said nothing but strolled over toward the telegraph office.

"This fellow's name is Rinehart, isn't it? thought I heard Tibbetts call him that."

Butler nodded, then turned toward me. He was full of the coming celebration out of his ranch. "I don't believe you ever saw anything like it, Jameson. When those fellows get started to-night there'll be no stopping them. I hope you don't care about your sleep."

Somehow, celebrating over at Butler's seemed flat to me just now. I didn't want to go. I wanted only to know what Craig's game was and what further part I was to play in it.

"That's queer." Kennedy had returned, frowning and rather vexed. "Rinehart isn't here. Did you see him, Walter?"

"No; I wasn't looking for him. Not there? Maybe he'll be back right away. I thought they were not supposed to leave the place for any length of time."

I looked at the station clock. It was almost nine. Well then, the train to Junction City would soon be pulling in and possibly a message would have to be sent. If Kennedy would only do something I Rinehart might be back any moment, change his mind, desperate to prevent any accident.

"Rinehart will be back," asserted Butler, confidently. "He'll be here before the 9:05 rolls in. He knows the rules of the office. No use worrying over that man's job."

Suddenly through the open grating of the missing telegrapher's room came the ticking, ticking of a message. I listened anxiously. Now we were up against it! What would we do if it were something that needed an answer and we couldn't answer? Over the wire we could hear ticking BH... BH... BH. It was the call for Baiting Hollow.

None of us said a word. Both Craig and I knew enough to know what that meant. I realized now that Butler knew. Would he betray his knowledge? His face was a study, stony, blank. If he knew, he was keeping all that to himself. If he were Fat Barr, I thought, what an actor he was!

Again we heard BH... BH... BH... Rinehart was still away. Kennedy stood startled, impassive, waiting. If that were his game, I would play it likewise. But I was on my toes with excitement suppressed. What was the message? What was the trouble? Might it, after all, be something inconsequential?

Suddenly, as if in despair at getting the operator, Rinehart, himself, the message began to come over the wire. One could have heard a pin drop in that room, save for the ticking of that instrument. It was not an ordinary silence. It was portentous, fraught with horror, breathing of calamity. I felt it and I knew Butler was feeling it, too. He couldn't keep his feet still. Yet, on second thought, I was forced to admit to myself that his nervousness implied no guilt. It might simply mean worry over Rinehart's absence, with a message coming in and no one to answer it.

I glanced at the clock. The minute hand showed one minute past nine. With bated breath I waited for the rest of the message.

FREIGHT WRECK BETWEEN BAITING HOLLOW AND JUNCTION CITY. FOR GOD'S SAKE, HOLD 247. ANSWER. J.C.

We looked at each other solemnly. Craig and I knew the purport of the message. Did Butler know? He still seemed calm, unaffected. Something must be done to shake him.

"Good heavens, Walter! What shall we do? I can read—but I can't send!" Kennedy looked wildly at me.

Butler turned to me as if seeking what I was able to do. "I can't do either. What is it?" I managed to gasp.

I was desperate when Kennedy blurted it out. To think of having a thing like this happen the very time I pulled a trick on poor Rinehart!

Butler was pacing up and down the floor, worried and undecided. Suddenly he turned to both of us, hesitated, then started toward the instrument.

"Well, I used to send—a little bit," he managed to ejaculate, almost incoherent with pent-up emotion. "I'll answer if I can."

Ticking at the key, we heard Butler sending over the wire, "J C... J 0... J C..." There was a pause, then an answer. Again he was at the key.

Suddenly Craig dashed out of the railroad station. Neither Butler nor I thought anything of that under the stress of this new circumstance. It might be something perhaps with regard to the approaching train 247.

Out on the platform, Butler and I were straining our eyes and ears, waiting nervously for the first signs of 247. Up and down, out on the tracks, even, we paced. I knew the train would stop. It had to stop. What if this time it didn't? All sorts of wild thoughts raced through my mind.

At last, up the tracks we could see the headlight along the shiny rails, coming closer, around the bend. The shrill whistle cleft the night air. It must stop. That was the only thought in my mind.

The train slowed down with much fuss of air brakes and hissing of escaping steam. There was a thankfulness in my heart at the saving of lives.

Butler's arm was raised to catch the attention of the engineer. I was running, beckoning the conductor. We must warn these men of the danger.

He was abruptly interrupted. Kennedy had returned from the hotel across the street suddenly, and was standing relentlessly in his path.

"That will do, Butler! You'll come with me on 247. Mary's waiting for you at Junction City. Buster needs you—desperately!"

"Mary? Buster? Who's Mary?" Butler repeated it incredulously and a bit defiantly.

"Hen Butler of Baiting Hollow. That's who I am. Everybody here knows me!" The man muttered it sullenly. "Like the devil yon are! You're Fat Barr. You sent the world series in 1914. There's no wreck on the line. Mary sent that message from Junction City, where she is working. It's a trap. You fell into it—and answered it. Mary just telephoned to me at the hotel she'd recognize that touch on the key among ten thousand!"

THE END

ARTHUR B. REEVE

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE SIX SENSES SIGHT—SMELL—TASTE—TOUCH— HEARING—SIXTH

TOUCH

THE END

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE SIX SENSES
SIGHT—SMELL—TASTE—TOUCH— HEARING—SIXTH