of days."
He threw his shaving kit into his grip, put on his overcoat, said good-night, and went out.
CHAPTER III
Next morning at eight o'clock Charlie Bannon walked into the office of C. H. Dennis, the manager of the Ledyard Salt and Lumber Company.
"I'm Bannon," he said, "of MacBride & Company. Come up to see why you don't get out our bill of cribbing."
"Told you by letter," retorted Dennis. "We can't get the cars."
"I know you did. That's a good thing to say in a letter. I wanted to find out how much of it really was cut."
"It's all cut and stacked by the siding, taking up half the yard. Want to see it?"
Bannon smiled and nodded. "Here's a good cigar for you," he said, "and you're a good fellow, but I think I'd like to see the cribbing."
"Oh, that's all right," laughed Dennis. "I'd have said the same thing if it wasn't cut. Come out this way."
Bannon followed him out into the yard. "There it is," said the manager.
There was no need of pointing it out. It made a pile more than three hundred feet long. It was nothing but rough hemlock, two inches thick, and from two to ten inches wide, intended to be spiked together flatwise for the walls of the bins, but its bulk was impressive. Bannon measured it with his eye and whistled. "I wish that had been down on our job ten days ago," he said, presently. "I'd be taking a vacation now if it had."
"Well, it was ready then. You can tell by the color."
"What's the matter with the G. & M. anyway? They don't seem to be hauling very much. I noticed that last night when I came up. I'm no good at sleeping on the train."
"Search me," said Dennis. "They've tied us up for these two weeks. I've kicked for cars, and the old man—that's Sloan—he's kicked, but here we are yet—can't move hand or foot."
"Who's Sloan?"
"Oh, he's the whole thing. Owns the First National Bank and the trolley line and the Ledyard Salt and Lumber Company and most of the downtown real estate."
"Where can I find him? Is he in town?"
"I guess so. He's got an office across the river. Just ask anybody where the Sloan Building is."
"Likely to be there as early as this?" asked Bannon, looking at his watch.
"Sure, if he's in town."
Bannon slipped his watch into his pocket. "Much obliged," he said. "Glad to have met you. Good morning;" and, turning, he walked rapidly away down the plank wagon road.
In Sloan's office he stated his errand as briefly as on the former occasion, adding only that he had already seen Dennis.
"I guess he told you all there is to tell," said the magnate. "We can't make the G. & M. give us cars. I've told Dennis to stir 'em up as hard as he could. I guess we'll have to wait."
"I can't wait."
"What else can you do? It's every bit as bad for us as it is for you, and you can rest assured that we'll do all we can." As if the cadence of his last sentence were not sufficiently recognizable as a formula of dismissal, he picked up a letter that lay on his desk and began reading it.
"This isn't an ordinary kick," said Bannon, sharply. "It isn't just a case of us having to pay a big delay forfeit. There's a reason why our job's got to be done on time. I want to know the reason why the G. & M. won't give you cars. It ain't because they haven't got them."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because there's three big strings of empties within twenty miles of here this minute. I saw them when I came up this morning."
For a minute Sloan said nothing, only traced designs on the blotter with his pencil. Bannon saw that there was no longer any question of arousing his interest. At last he spoke:—
"I've suspected that there was something in the wind, but I've been too busy with other things to tend to it, so I turned it over to Dennis. Perhaps he's done as well as I could. I don't know much about G. & M. these days. For a long time they were at me to take a big block of treasury stock, but the road seemed to me in bad shape, so I wouldn't go in. Lately they've reorganized—have got a lot of new money in there—I don't know whose, but they've let me alone. There's been no row, you understand. That ain't the reason they've tied us up, but I haven't known much about what was going on inside."
"Would they be likely to tell you if you asked? I mean if you took it to headquarters?"
"I couldn't get any more out of them than you could—that is, not by asking."
"I guess I'll go look 'em up myself. Where can I find anybody that knows anything?"
"The division offices are at Blake City. That's only about twenty miles. You could save time by talking over the 'phone."
"Not me," said Bannon. "In a case like this I couldn't express myself properly unless I saw the fellow I was talking to."
Sloan laughed. "I guess you're right. But I'll call up the division superintendent and tell him you're coming. Then you'll be sure of finding him."
Bannon shook his head. "I'd find him with his little speech all learned. No, I'll take my chances on his being there. When's the train?"
"Nine-forty-six."
"That gives me fifteen minutes. Can I make it?"
"Not afoot, and you ain't likely to catch a car. I'll drive you down. I've got the fastest mare in Pottawatomie County."
The fact that the G. & M. had been rescued from its poverty and was about to be "developed" was made manifest in Blake City by the modern building which the railroad was erecting on the main street. Eventually the division officials were to be installed in office suites of mahogany veneer, with ground glass doors lettered in gold leaf. For the present, as from the beginning, they occupied an upper floor of a freight warehouse. Bannon came in about eleven o'clock, looked briefly about, and seeing that one corner was partitioned off into a private office, he ducked under the hand rail intended to pen up ordinary visitors, and made for it. A telegraph operator just outside the door asked what his business was, but he answered merely that it was with the superintendent, and went in.
He expected rather rough work. The superintendent of a railroad, or of a division, has to do with the employees, never with the customers, and his professional manner is not likely to be distinguished by suavity. So he unconsciously squared his shoulders when he said, "I'm Bannon, of MacBride & Company."
The superintendent dismissed his stenographer, swept with his arm a clear space on the desk, and then drummed on it with his fingers, but he did not look up immediately. When he did, it was with an expression of grave concern.
"Mr. Bannon," he said, "I'm mighty sorry. I'll do anything I can for you. You can smoke ten cent cigars on me from now till Christmas, and light them with passes. Anything——"
"If you feel like that," said Bannon, "we can fix things all comfortable in three minutes. All I want is cars."
The superintendent shook his head. "There's where you stump me," he said. "I haven't got 'em."
"Mr. Superintendent, that's what they told me in Chicago, and that's what they told me at Ledyard. I didn't come up here to Blake City to be told the same thing and then go back home."
"Well, I don't know what else I can tell you. That's just the size of it. I hope we'll be able to fix you in a few days, but we can't promise anything."
Bannon frowned, and after an expectant pause, the superintendent went on talking vaguely about the immense rush of traffic.