"That's my name."

"I heard of you three years ago when you was down on the Long Line
Sandy," said the man. He paused and considered. "What's your lay, Mr.
Banneker?" he asked, curiously but respectfully.

"As you see it. Railroading."

"A gay-cat," put in the boy with a touch of scorn.

"You hold your fresh lip," his elder rebuked him. "This gent has treated
us _like_ a gent. But why? What's the idea? That's what I don't get."

"Oh, some day I might want to run for Governor on the hobo ticket,"
returned the unsmiling agent.

"You get our votes. Well, so long and much obliged."

The two resumed their journey. Banneker returned to his book. A freight,
"running extra," interrupted him, but not for long. The wire had been
practicing a seemly restraint for uneventful weeks, so the agent felt
that he could settle down to a sure hour's bookishness yet, even though
the west-bound Transcontinental Special should be on time, which was
improbable, as "bad track" had been reported from eastward, owing to the
rains. Rather to his surprise, he had hardly got well reimmersed in the
enchantments of the mercantile fairyland when the "Open Office" wire
warned him to be attentive, and presently from the east came tidings of
Number Three running almost true to schedule, as befitted the pride of
the line, the finest train that crossed the continent.