VINTAGE MYSTERIES - 70+ Stories in One Volume (Thriller Classics Series). Robert Barr

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      The newspaper man, lingering, asked if there would be only one telegrapher on hand after the execution.

      "I shall have a lot of stuff to send over and I want it rushed. Some of the papers may get out specials. I would have brought an operator with me but we thought there was going to be a reprieve—although the sheriff didn't seem to think so," he added.

      "The day operator will be here at six, I will return as soon as I have had a cup of coffee, and we'll handle all you can write," answered Bowen, without looking up from his instrument.

      "Thanks. Grim business, isn't it?"

      "It is."

      "I thought the governor would cave; didn't you?"

      "I didn't know."

      "He's a shrewd old villain. He'd have lost next election if he'd reprieved this man. People don't want to see lynching introduced, and a weak-kneed governor is Judge Lynch's friend. Well, good-night, see you in the morning."

      "Good-night," said Bowen.

      Daylight gradually dimmed the lamps in the telegraph room, and Bowen started and caught his breath as the church bell began to toll.

      It was ten minutes after six when Bowen's partner, the day man, came in.

      "Well, they've hanged him," he said.

      Bowen was fumbling among some papers on his table. He folded two of them and put them in his inside pocket. Then he spoke:

      "There will be a newspaper man here in a few moments with a good deal of copy to telegraph. Rush it off as fast as you can and I'll be back to help before you are tired."

      As Bowen walked towards the gaol he met the scattered group of those who had been privileged to see the execution. They were discussing capital punishment, and some were yawningly complaining about the unearthly hour chosen for the function they had just beheld. Between the outside gate and the gaol door Bowen met the sheriff, who was looking ghastly and sallow in the fresh morning light.

      "I have come to give myself up," said Bowen, before the official could greet him.

      "To give yourself up? What for?"

      "For murder, I suppose."

      "This is no time for joking, young man," said the sheriff, severely.

      "Do I look like a humourist? Read that."

      First incredulity, then horror, overspread the haggard face of the sheriff as he read and re-read the dispatch. He staggered back against the wall, putting up his arm to keep himself from falling.

      "Bowen," he gasped: "Do you—do you mean to—to tell me—that this message came for me last night?"

      "I do."

      "And you—you suppressed it?"

      "I did—and sent you a false one."

      "And I have hanged—a reprieved man?"

      "You have hanged a murderer—yes."

      "My God! My God!" cried the sheriff. He turned his face on his arm against the wall and wept. His nerves were gone. He had been up all night and had never hanged a man before.

      Bowen stood there until the spasm was over. The sheriff turned indignantly to him, trying to hide the feeling of shame he felt at giving way, in anger at the witness of it.

      "And you come to me, you villain, because I said I would help you if you ever got into a tight place?"

      "Damn your tight place," cried the young man, "I come to you to give myself up. I stand by what I do. I don't squeal. There will be no petitions got up for me. What are you going to do with me?"

      "I don't know, Bowen, I don't know," faltered the official, on the point of breaking down again. He did not wish to have to hang another man, and a friend at that. "I'll have to see the governor. I'll leave by the first train. I don't suppose you'll try to escape."

      "I'll be here when you want me."

      So Bowen went back to help the day operator, and the sheriff left by the first train for the capital.

      Now a strange thing happened. For the first time within human recollection the newspapers were unanimous in commending the conduct of the head of the State, the organs of the governor's own party lavishly praising him; the opposition sheets grudgingly admitting that he had more backbone than they had given him credit for. Public opinion, like the cat of the simile, had jumped, and that unmistakably.

      "In the name of all that's wonderful, sheriff," said the bewildered governor, "who signed all those petitions? If the papers wanted the man hanged, why, in the fiend's name, did they not say so before, and save me all this worry? Now how many know of this suppressed dispatch?"

      "Well, there's you and your subordinates here and——"

      "We'll say nothing about it."

      "And then there is me and Bowen in Brentingville. That's all."

      "Well, Bowen will keep quiet for his own sake, and you won't mention it."

      "Certainly not."

      "Then let's all keep quiet. The thing's safe if some of those newspaper fellows don't get after it. It's not on record in the books, and I'll burn all the documents."

      And thus it was. Public opinion was once more vindicated. The governor was triumphantly re-elected as a man with some stamina about him.

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