long table holding
a wireless outfit, a couple of chairs and a shelf of books. On the walls
were tacked pictures of aviators and drawings of aeroplanes. A
three-foot model of a biplane hung in a corner.

"Now if he is only in," said the boy, going over to the table and giving
the call.

"He's there," he said eagerly, holding out his hand for the message.

Durmont handed it to him. His face still held the look of doubt and
unbelief as he looked at the crude, home-made instruments.

"Suppose I might as well have hired a horse and taken it into town." But
the sputtering wire drowned his voice.

"And get on your wheel and go like blazes. Tell 'em to rush answer. This
guy here thinks a colored boy is only an animated shoe-blacking outfit;
it's up to us to remedy that defect in his education, see!" Thus sang
the wires as Durmont paced the floor.

"I said," began the nervous man as the wires became quiet. "I--" again
the wire sputtered, and he couldn't hear himself talk. When it was
quiet, he tried again, but as soon as he began to grumble, the wire
began to sputter. He glanced suspiciously at the boy, but the latter was
earnestly watching his instruments.

"Say," shouted Durmont, "does that thing have to keep up that confounded
racket all the time?"

"I had to give him some instructions, you know, and also keep in
adjustment."

"Well, I'll get out of adjustment myself if that keeps up."

Durmont resigned himself to silence, and strangely enough, so did the
wire. Walking around the room he noticed over the shelf of books a large
white sheet on which was printed in gilt letters:

"I WILL STUDY AND MAKE READY, AND MAYBE MY CHANCE WILL COME."

--ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Durmont read this, and then looked at the boy as if seeing him for the
first time. Again he looked at the words, and far beyond them he saw his
own struggling boyhood, climbing daily Life's slippery path, trying to
find some hold by which to pull himself up. And as he watched the
brown-skinned boy bending over the instruments, instinct told him here
was one who would find it still harder to fight his way up, because of
caste.

"Ah!"

The exclamation startled him. The boy with phones adjusted was busily
writing.

"Well, has that partner of yours got that message down at his end yet?"

"Yes, sir, and here is your answer from New York."

"Why it's only been half an hour since I wrote it," said Durmont.