Realizing that it might be my only opportunity, I quickly determined to take the risk of his returning soon and, perchance, missing the message from his file--it being conspicuous because of its bulky appearance. I silently stole up to the desk and slipped the big piece of paper from his hook and put it--not in my pocket, not by a good deal--but I carelessly laid it "aside," where I would be able to reach it, and where the operator could find it if he should return and take a notion to hunt it up.
Pleased with my success, and emboldened by the continued absence of the operator, I thought of looking further for a copy of the message about "Banks" that I had heard come over the wires that afternoon, but abandoned it, remembering that, as it was a received message from Richmond, that probably there was no copy of it retained in the office and the original had been delivered.
Everything seemed to become oppressively as still and quiet as death outside--the office was dark; the instrument only ticked an occasional "call" from "Rd;" but as the operator was not there to answer the "call" the "Rd" operator no doubt thought him asleep, and with that feeling of fraternity and consideration for which the craft are noted, the man at "Rd" undoubtedly turned in himself. It's probable the feeble call was merely a desire to assure himself that the man at the other end was drowsy and ready to go to sleep. I understood all their little tricks. I had been there myself often, and, as I lay on that floor, I fully sympathized with the boys.
Feeling that it was to be almost my last hour in the telegraph service of the Rebels at Manassas, I became bold and reckless enough at my success, and the hope of getting away soon, to undertake a very foolish piece of business.
In the darkness, which comes just before daylight (when I should leave), I learned the Cooper message. At the same moment, almost involuntarily, I placed my hand on the "key" of the telegraph instrument and softly called, "Rd-Rd-Rd," several times; there was no answer to my first feeble call. The operator was probably asleep. I was turning away, abandoning the attempt, when I was thrilled through and through by the click of the instrument answering in a slow, sleepy way, "I-I-I," which is the affirmative signal in answer to a call for attention to receive a message. Glaring about wildly in the darkness in search of the voice of the Rebel spectre I had aroused, and who was speaking to me from Richmond, I took hold of the key and said, in nervous haste and desperation: