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