Cornelius, Junior, did not so much as lift his eyes from the evening paper,
as he quietly answered, "Is he?" But the corners of his mouth slightly
relaxed.

The car seemed to crawl out to Kingston Heights. As it at last neared its
terminus, a strong temptation seized the boy Cyrus. He had been on a
purposeless errand to this place once that day. The corner of West and
Dwight Streets lay more than half a mile from the end of the car route, and
it was an almost untenanted district. His legs were very tired; his stomach
ached with emptiness. Why not wait out the interval which it would take to
walk to the corner and back in a little suburban station, read envelope No.
19, and spare himself? He had certainly done enough to prove that he was a
faithful messenger.

Had he? Certain old and well-worn words came into his mind; they had been
in his writing-book in the early school-days: "A chain is no stronger than
its weakest link." Cyrus jumped off the car before it fairly stopped, and
started at a hot pace for the corner of West and Dwight Streets. There must
be no weak places in his word of honor.

Doggedly he went to the extreme limit of the indicated route, even taking
the longest way round to make the turn. As he started back, beneath the arc
light at the corner there suddenly appeared a city messenger boy. He
approached Cyrus, and, grinning, held out an envelope.

"Ordered to give you this," he said, "if you made connections. If you'd
been later than five minutes past seven, I was to keep dark. You've got
seven minutes and a half to spare. Queer orders, but the big railroad boss,
Woodbridge, gave 'em to me."