grace of an Indian, the air of a courtier, and the bearing of a soldier in every line of the six feet and more of his tireless frame.  No man who ever saw John Morgan on horseback but had the picture stamped forever on his brain, as no man who ever saw that coal-black horse ever forgot Black Bess.  Behind him came his staff, and behind them came a wizened little man, whose nickname was “Lightning”—­telegraph operator for Morgan’s Men.  There was need of Lightning now, so Morgan sent him on into town with Dan and Jerry Dillon, while he and Richard Hunt followed leisurely.

The three troopers found the station operator seated on the platform—­pipe in mouth, and enjoying himself hugely.  He looked lazily at them.

“Call up Lexington,” said Lightning, sharply.

“Go to hell!” said the operator, and then he nearly toppled from his chair.  Lightning, with a vicious gesture, had swung a pistol on him.

“Here—­here!” he gasped, “what’d you mean?”

“Call up Lexington,” repeated Lightning.  The operator seated himself.

“What do you want in Lexington?” he growled.

“Ask the time of day?” The operator stared, but the instrument clicked.

“What’s your name?” asked Lightning.

“Woolums.”

“Well, Woolums, you’re a ‘plug.’  I wanted to see how you handled the key.  Yes, Woolums, you’re a plug.”

Then Lightning seated himself, and Woolums’ mouth flew open—­Lightning copied his style with such exactness.  Again the instrument clicked and Lightning listened, smiling: 

“Will there be any danger coming to Midway?” asked a railroad conductor in Lexington.  Lightning answered, grinning: 

“None.  Come right on.  No sign of rebels here.”  Again a click from Lexington.

“General Ward orders General Finnell of Frankfort to move his forces.  General Ward will move toward Georgetown, to which Morgan with eighteen hundred men is marching.”

Lightning caught his breath—­this was Morgan’s force and his intention exactly.  He answered: 

“Morgan with upward of two thousand men has taken the road to Frankfort.  This is reliable.”  Ten minutes later, Lightning chuckled.

“Ward orders Finnell to recall his regiment to Frankfort.”

Half an hour later another idea struck Lightning.  He clicked as though telegraphing from Frankfort: 

“Our pickets just driven in.  Great excitement.  Force of enemy must be two thousand.”

Then Lightning laughed.  “I’ve fooled ’em,” said Lightning.

There was turmoil in Lexington.  The streets thundered with the tramp of cavalry going to catch Morgan.  Daylight came and nothing was done—­nothing known.  The afternoon waned, and still Ward fretted at head-quarters, while his impatient staff sat on the piazza talking, speculating, wondering where the wily raider was.  Leaning on the campus-fence near by were Chadwick Buford and Harry Dean.