“Good,” said the clerk.
And with the greatest coolness in the world he began to telegraph the following dispatch:
Daily Telegraph, London.
“From Kolyvan, Government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August.
“Engagement between Russian and Tartar troops.”
The reading was in a distinct voice, so that Michael heard all that the English correspondent was sending to his paper.
“Russians repulsed with great loss. Tartars entered Kolyvan today.”
These words ended the dispatch.
“My turn now,” cried Alcide Jolivet, anxious to send off his dispatch, addressed to his cousin in the Faubourg Montmartre.
But that was not Blount’s idea, who did not intend to give up the wicket, but have it in his power to send off the news just as the events occurred. He would therefore not make way for his companion.
“But you have finished!” exclaimed Jolivet.
“I have not finished,” returned Harry Blount quietly.
And he proceeded to write some sentences, which he handed in to the clerk, who read out in his calm voice:
“John Gilpin was a citizen
of credit and renown;
a trainband captain eke was he
of famous London town.”
Harry Blount was telegraphing some verses learned in his childhood, in order to employ the time, and not give up his place to his rival. It would perhaps cost his paper some thousands of rubles, but it would be the first informed. France could wait.
Jolivet’s fury may be imagined, though under any other circumstances he would have thought it fair warfare. He even endeavored to force the clerk to take his dispatch in preference to that of his rival.
“It is that gentleman’s right,” answered the clerk coolly, pointing to Blount, and smiling in the most amiable manner.
And he continued faithfully to transmit to the Daily Telegraph the well-known verses of Cowper.
Whilst he was working Blount walked to the window and, his field glass to his eyes, watched all that was going on in the neighborhood of Kolyvan, so as to complete his information.
In a few minutes he resumed his place at the wicket, and added to his telegram—
“Two churches are in flames. The fire appears to gain on the right.
‘John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,
“Though wedded we have been
these twice ten tedious years, yet we
no holiday have seen.” ’ ”
Alcide Jolivet would have liked to strangle the honorable correspondent of the Daily Telegraph.
He again interrupted the clerk, who, quite unmoved, merely replied—
“It is his right, sir, it is his right—at ten kopecks a word.”
And he telegraphed the following news, just brought him by Blount—
“Russian fugitives are escaping from the town.
‘Away went Gilpin—who but he?
His fame soon spread around:
“He carries weight! he rides a race!
’Tis for a thousand pound!” ’ ”
And Blount turned round with a quizzical look at his rival.
Alcide Jolivet fumed.
In the meanwhile Harry Blount had returned to the window, but this time, his attention was diverted by the interest of the scene before him, he prolonged his absence too long. Therefore, when the clerk had finished telegraphing the last lines dictated by Blount, Alcide Jolivet noiselessly took his place at the wicket, and, just as his rival had done, after quietly depositing a respectable pile of rubles on the shelf, he delivered his dispatch, which the clerk read aloud—
“Madeleine Jolivet, 10, Faubourg Montmartre, Paris.
“From Kolyvan, Government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August.
“Fugitives are escaping from the town. Russians defeated. Fiercely pursued by the Tartar cavalry.”
And as Harry Blount returned he heard Jolivet completing his telegram by singing in a mocking tone—
“Il est un petit homme,
Tout habille de gris,
Dans Paris!”
Imitating his rival, Alcide Jolivet had used a merry refrain of Béranger.
“Hallo!” said Harry Blount.
“Just so,” answered Jolivet.
In the meantime the situation at Kolyvan was alarming in the extreme. The battle was raging nearer, and the firing was incessant.
At that moment the telegraph-house shook to its foundations.
A shell had made a hole in the wall, and a cloud of dust filled the office.
Alcide was just finishing writing his lines—
“Joufflu comme une pomme,
Qui, sans un sou comptant—
But to stop, dart on the shell, seize it in both hands, throw it out of the window, and return to the wicket, was only the affair of a moment.
Five seconds later the shell burst outside.
But continuing with the greatest possible coolness, Alcide wrote—
“A six-inch shell has just blown up the wall of the telegraph office. Expecting a few more of the same size.”
Michael Strogoff had no doubt that the Russians were driven out of Kolyvan. His last resource was to set out across the southern steppe.
Just then renewed firing broke out close to the telegraph-house, and a perfect shower of bullets smashed all the glass in the windows.
Harry Blount fell to the ground wounded in the shoulder.
Jolivet even at such a moment, was about to add this postscript to his dispatch—
“Harry Blount, correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, has fallen at my side struck by a volley of—” when the imperturbable clerk said calmly—
“Sir, the wire has broken.”
And, leaving his wicket, he quietly took his hat, brushed it round with his sleeve, and, still smiling, disappeared through a little door which Michael had not before perceived.
The house was surrounded by Tartar soldiers, and neither Michael nor the reporters could effect their retreat.
Alcide Jolivet, his useless dispatch in his hand, had run to Blount, stretched on the ground, and had bravely lifted him on his shoulders, with the intention of flying with him. He was too late!
Both were prisoners; and, at the same time, Michael, taken unawares as he was about to leap from the window, fell into the hands of the Tartars!
Part II
I
A Tartar Camp
At a day’s march from Kolyvan, several versts beyond the town of Diachinks, stretches a wide plain, planted here and there with great trees, principally pines and cedars. This part of the steppe is usually occupied during the warm season by Siberian shepherds, and their numerous flocks. But now it might have been searched in vain for one of its nomad inhabitants. Not
