The first time that Boylan of the Rhodes News Agency of New York saw Peter Mowbray was in the office of Lonegan of The States, Mowbray's chief in Warsaw. Lonegan had known Peter in New York and had wanted him for his second many months before the fact was brought about. This was the Boylan of the Schmedding Polar Failure, of various wars and expeditions, a huge spectacle of a man, an old-timer, and very fond of Lonegan, though as representative of Rhodes'' he was structurally the competitor of The States in this territory.
“Young Mowbray may be all right,” Boylan observed, “but the curse of the student is on him. I should say that he isn't gusty enough for hard work—vest buttons too safe—”
“You can't measure health by the pound,” Lonegan observed, regarding the other's bulk with one eye shut.
“I never heard of Mowbray spending much time in bed outside of the small hours.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-six or seven.”
“I suppose he put on his gear all in a year or two?”
“There is that look about him, but he's safely over it. Some people never stop, but I've had to look up at him from the same angle now and then during the last five years.... It was just a little before that he happened into—his route like mine—his cub-year in London, then assistant in Antwerp, then in Dresden. He had Dresden alone for a year. I've been angling for him some time——”
“Yes,” Boylan remarked, “you need the right kind of help to stand up with Rhodes from this end——”
“You do make it wildly exciting,” Lonegan answered gently. “We'll rock Peter yet.”
This chat took place in June. Ten weeks afterward Boylan came in with the big news, and found Lonegan bending over the following cablegram, almost the last that came through in the private cipher of The States:
Get Mowbray post with Russians. We are mailing influential matters. Warsaw key-desk for northern campaigns. We are to be congratulated on having Lonegan there.
It was from the Old Man, who in certain cases ventured thus to be expensively felicitous....
“I'm sorry, Lonegan,” Boylan said. “I thought you would be taking the field—-”
“No, the Old Man's got the right eye for these affairs. I'm a desk man.”
What Lonegan had swallowed to make his voice clear and steady, only he knew, but his nerve was effective. “You've got to help me, Boylan,” he said. “You know the military end. You've got to help me get him attached. I know you'd do it for me, but I want you to do it for him—”
A grunt from the big man, who disappeared.
...Lonegan's lip curled. Again it was only Lonegan who knew why. He read the cablegram carefully again, and felt his face as if speculating whether he could wait until morning for a shave. There was routine to do, and the developments of the day to file. Peter was on a mail story.... It occurred to him presently that his second would be interested in this eventuality from the Office. He called several places by 'phone without locating the younger man.
“He's with the woman,” Lonegan concluded.
Peter had left her address somewhere, but it was not at hand; neither was her house available to telephone. Lonegan took down the Warsaw directory, and came finally to the street-number after this line:
“Bertha Solwicz, sempstress.”
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