“Now behave yo’se’f, Boomerang.  We’m almost dere an’ den yo’ kin sit down an’ rest if yo’ laik.  Jest keep it up a little longer, an’ we’ll gib Massa Tom his telephone.  G’lang now, Boomerang.”

The tattoo of hoofbeats was slowing up now, and the cloud of dust was not so heavy.  It was gradually blowing away.  Tom Swift walked down to the fence that separated the house, grounds and shops from the road.  As he got there the sounds of the mule’s progress, and the rattle of the wagon, suddenly ceased.

“G’lang!  G’lang!  Don’t yo’ dare t’ stop now, when we am most dere!” cried Eradicate Sampson.  “Keep a-movin’, Boomerang!”

“It’s all right, Eradicate.  I’m here,” called Tom, and when the last of the dust had blown away, the lad waved his hand to an aged colored man, who sat upon the seat of perhaps the most dilapidated wagon that was ever dignified by such a name.  It was held together with bits of wire, rope and strings, and each of the four wheels leaned out at a different angle.  It was drawn by a big mule, whose bones seemed protruding through his skin, but that fact evidently worried him but little, for now the animal was placidly sleeping, while standing up, his long ears moving slowly to and fro.

“Am dat yo’, Massa Tom?” asked Eradicate, ceasing his task of jerking on the lines, to which operation the mule paid not the least attention.

“Yes, I’m here, Rad,” replied Tom, smiling.  “I came out of my shop to see what all the excitement was about.  How did you ever get your mule to make so much dust?”

“I done promise him an extra helpin’ ob oats ef he make good time,” said the colored man.  “An’ he done it, too.  Did yo’ see de dust we made?”

“I sure did, but you didn’t do much else.  And you didn’t make very good time.  I watched you, and you came along like an ice wagon after a day’s work on the Fourth of July.  You were going fast, but moving slow.”

“I ’spects we was, Massa Tom,” was the colored man’s answer.  “But Boomerang done better dan I ’spected he would.  I done tole him yo’d be in a hurry t’ git yo’ telephone, an’ he sho’ did trot along.”

“My telephone?” repeated Tom, wonderingly.  “What have you and your mule Boomerang to do with my telephone?  That’s up in the house.”

“No, it ain’t! it’s right yeah in mah pocket,” chuckled Eradicate, opening a ragged coat, and reaching for something.  “I got yo’ telephone right yeah.” he went on.  “De agent at de station see me dribin’ ober dis way, an’ he done ast he t’ deliber it.  He said as how he ain’t got no messenger boy now, ’cause de one he done hab went on a strike fo’ five cents mo’ a day.  So I done took de telephone,” and with that the colored man pulled out a crumpled yellow envelope.

“Oh, you mean a telegram,” said Tom, with a laugh, as he took the message from the odd colored man.

“Well, maybe it’s telegraf, but I done understood de agent t’ say telephone.  Anyhow, dere it is.  An’ I s’pects we’d better git along, Boomerang.”