"It is cut between Kolyvan and Krasnoiarsk, but it is still working between Kolyvan and the Russian frontier.""For the government?"
"For the government, when it thinks proper. For the public, when they pay. Ten copecks a word, whenever you like, sir!"Michael was about to reply to this strange clerk that he had no message to send, that he only implored a little bread and water, when the door of the house was again thrown open.
Thinking that it was invaded by Tartars, Michael made ready to leap out of the window, when two men only entered the room who had nothing of the Tartar soldier about them. One of them held a dispatch, written in pencil, in his hand, and, passing the other, he hurried up to the wicket of the imperturbable clerk.
In these two men Michael recognized with astonishment, which everyone will understand, two personages of whom he was not thinking at all, and whom he had never expected to see again.
They were the two reporters, Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, no longer traveling companions, but rivals, enemies, now that they were working on the field of battle.
They had left Ichim only a few hours after the departure of Michael Strogoff, and they had arrived at Kolyvan before him, by following the same road, in consequence of his losing three days on the banks of the Irtych. And now, after being both present at the engagement between the Russians and Tartars before the town, they had left just as the struggle broke out in the streets, and ran to the telegraph office, so as to send off their rival dispatches to Europe, and forestall each other in their report of events.
Michael stood aside in the shadow, and without being seen himself he could see and hear all that was going on.
He would now hear interesting news, and would find out whether or not he could enter Kolyvan.
Blount, having distanced his companion, took possession of the wicket, whilst Alcide Jolivet, contrary to his usual habit, stamped with impatience.
"Ten copecks a word," said the clerk.
Blount deposited a pile of roubles on the shelf, whilst his rival looked on with a sort of stupefaction.
"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 to-day."These words ended the dispatch.
"My turn now," cried Alcide Jolivet, anxious to send off his dispatch, addressed to his cousin.
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 train-band 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 roubles, 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.