ticed how the boy in the
telegraphers' box--a boy of their own--was working. Mysterious voices,
too, began to spread among them the news how Charlie Moore had saved the
day--or, rather, the night--and now and then in Jimmy Grayson's pauses
cries of "Good boy, Charlie!" arose.

Harley, while doing his writing, nevertheless kept a keen eye upon all
the actors in the drama. He saw the light of hope appear more strongly
upon old man Moore's face, and then turn into a glow as he beheld his
son doing so well.

The candidate spoke on and on. He had begun at nine o'clock, but that
was a great and important speech, and no one left the hall. Eleven
o'clock, and then midnight, and Jimmy Grayson was still speaking. But it
was not his night alone; it belonged to two men, and the other partner
was Charlie Moore, who fulfilled his task equally well, and whom the
audience still observed.

But the boy was thinking only of his duty that he was doing so well. The
victory was his, as he knew that it would be. He kept even with the
speech. Hardly had the last word of the sentence left Jimmy Grayson's
lips before the first of it was on the way to Denver, and in newspaper
offices two thousand miles away they were putting every paragraph in
type before it was a half-hour old.

The boy, by-and-by, as the words passed before him on the written page,
began to notice what a great speech it was. How the sentences cut to the
heart of things! How luminous and striking was the phraseology! And
around him he heard, as if in a dream, the liquid notes of that
wonderful, golden voice. Suddenly, like a stroke of lightning, he
realized how empty were his own thoughts, how bare and hard his speech,
and how thin and flat his voice! His heart sank with a plunge, and then
rose again as his finger touched the familiar key and the answering
touch thrilled back through his body. He glanced at the audience, and
saw many faces looking up at him, and on them was a peculiar look. Again
the thrill ran through him, and, bending his head lower, he sent the
words faster than ever on their eastern journey.

At last Jimmy Grayson stopped, and then the audience cheered its
applause for the speech. When the echoes died, some one--it was Judge
Basset--sprang up on a chair and exclaimed:

"Gentlemen, we have cheered Mr. Grayson, and he deserves it; but there
is some one else whom we ought to cheer, too. You have seen Charlie
Moore, a Pueblo boy, one of our own, there in