Give me a dose now, if you don't mind." For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day.

He was moody, and fretful as a sick colt.

But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause accurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and had considered them in the "mixture." The post office was not busy when Grant entered.

A young man, a stranger, was seated at the telegraphist's desk, tapping a new instrument.

The G.
P.O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with press messages.
Mr.Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant.