I wasn't gone over ten minutes, and
as I stepped into the doorway to come upstairs on my return, I heard
what sounded like a shot in the office. I flew upstairs two steps at a
time, and never to my dying day will I forget the sight that met my
gaze. Borroughs, whom I had left but a few moments before full of life
and energy, was half lying on the table, face downwards, dead by his own
hand. The blood was oozing from a jagged wound in his temple, and on the
floor was the smoking pistol he had used. Fred Bennett, the chief
despatcher, as pale as a ghost, was bending over him, while the two call
boys were standing near paralyzed with fright. It was an intensely
dramatic setting for a powerful stage picture, and my heart stood still
for a minute as I contemplated the awful scene. Mr. Hebron, the division
superintendent, came in from the outer office, and was transfixed with
horror and amazement when he saw the terrible picture.
Bennett turned to me and said, "Bates, come here and help me lift poor
Borroughs out of this chair."
Gently and carefully we laid him down on the floor and sent one of the
badly frightened boys for a surgeon.
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