Click-click-click-click! sounded the machine on the barrel.

“It’s the division superintendent at Lineville, calling up Brewster’s,” announced the operator.

“Answer for Brewster, then,” directed Black.  “Let us see what the division super wants, anyway.”

More clicking followed, after which the operator explained: 

“Division super asks Brewster if through train has passed there.”

“Answer, ‘Yes; twelve minutes ago,’” directed Black.

The instrument clicked furiously for a few moments.

“The division super keeps sending, ‘Sign, sign, sign!’” explained the operator at the barrel.  “So I’ve kept on signing ‘Br,’ ‘Br,’ over and over again.  That’s the proper signature for Brewster’s.”

Again the machine clicked noisily.

“Still insisting on the signature,” grinned the operator uneasily.

“Do you know the name of the operator at Brewster’s?” demanded ’Gene Black.

“Yes,” nodded the man at the barrel.  “The operator at Brewster’s is a chap named Havens.”

“Then send the signature, ’Havens, operator, Brewster’s,” ordered Black.

Still the machine clicked insistently.

“Super still yells for my signature,” explained the man at the barrel desk.  “He demands to know whether I’m really the operator at Brewster’s, or whether I’ve broken in on the wire at some other point.”

“Don’t answer the division super any further, then,” snorted Black disgustedly.

Tom, with his ability to read messages, was enjoying the whole situation until Black, with a sudden flash of his eyes, turned upon the cub chief engineer.

“Reade,” he hissed, “you must know the proper signature for tonight for the operator at Brewster’s to use.”

“Nothing doing,” grunted Tom.

“Give us that signature the right one for Brewster’s.”

“Nothing doing,” Tom repeated.

“Put a pistol muzzle to his ear and see his memory brighten,” snarled the scoundrel.

One of the hard-looking men behind Tom obeyed.  Reade, it must be confessed, shivered slightly when he felt the cold touch of steel behind his ear.

“Give us the proper signature!” insisted ’Gene.

“Nothing doing,” Tom insisted.

“Give us the right signature, or take the consequences!”

“I can’t give it to you,” Tom replied steadily.  “I don’t know the signature.”

“You lie!”

“Thank you.”

Tom had gotten his drawl back.

“Do you want to have the trigger of that pistol pulled?” cried ’Gene Black hoarsely.

“I certainly don’t,” Tom confessed.  “Neither do I doubt that you fellows are scoundrels enough to do such a trick.  However, I can’t help you, even though I have to lose my life for my ignorance.  I honestly don’t know the right signature for Brewster’s tonight.  That information doesn’t belong to the engineering department, anyway.”