"Do they have to have an elevator to put it in?" asked Peterson. "Can't they deliver it in the cars? I don't know much about that side of the business."
"I should say not. The Board of Trade won't recognize grain as delivered until it has been inspected and stored in a registered house."
"When would the house have to be ready?"
"Well, if I'm right, if they're going to put December wheat in this house, they'll have to have it in before the last day of December."
"We couldn't do that," said Peterson, "if the cribbing was here."
Bannon, who had stretched out on the bed, swung his feet around and sat up. The situation was not easy, but he had been sent to Calumet to get the work done in time, and he meant to do it.
"Now, about this cribbing, Pete," he said; "we've got to have it before we can touch the annex?"
"I guess that's about it," Peterson replied.
"I've been figuring a little on this bill. I take it there's something over two million feet altogether. Is that right?"
"It's something like that. Couldn't say exactly. Max takes care of the lumber."
Bannon's brows came together.
"You ought to know a little more about this yourself, Pete. You're the man that's building the house."
"I guess I've been pushing it along as well as any one could," said Peterson, sullenly.
"That's all right. I ain't hitting at you. I'm talking business, that's all. Now, if Vogel's right, this cribbing ought to have been here fourteen days ago – fourteen days to-morrow."
Peterson nodded.
"That's just two weeks of lost time. How've you been planning to make that up?"
"Why – why – I reckon I can put things together soon's I get the cribbing."
"Look here, Pete. The office has contracted to get this house done by a certain date. They've got to pay $750 for every day that we run over that date. There's no getting out of that, cribbing or no cribbing. When they're seeing ten or twenty thousand dollars slipping out of their hands, do you think they're going to thank you for telling 'em that the G. & M. railroad couldn't get cars? They don't care what's the matter – all they want of you is to do the work on time."
"Now, look here, Charlie – "
"Hold on, Pete. Don't get mad. It's facts, that's all. Here's these two weeks gone. You see that, all right enough. Now, the way this work's laid out, a man's got to make every day count right from the start if he wants to land on his feet when the house is done. Maybe you think somebody up in the sky is going to hand you down a present of two extra weeks so the lost time won't count. That would be all right, only it ain't very likely to happen."
"Well," said Peterson, "what are you getting at? What do you want me to do? Perhaps you think it's easy."
"No, I don't. But I'll tell you what to do. In the first place you want to quit this getting out on the job and doing a laborer's work. The office is paying out good money to the men that should do that. You know how to lay a corbel, but just now you couldn't tell me how much cribbing was coming. You're paid to direct this whole job and to know all about it, not to lay corbels. If you put in half a day swinging a sledge out there on the spouting house, how're you going to know that the lumber bills tally, and the carpenters ain't making mistakes, and that the timber's piled right. Here to-day you had a dozen men throwing away their time moving a lot of timber that ought to have been put in the right place when it first came in."
Peterson was silent.
"Now to-morrow, Pete, as soon as you've got the work moving along, you'd better go over to the electric light company and see about having the whole ground wired for arc lamps, so we can be ready to put on a night shift the minute the cribbing comes in. You want to crowd 'em, too. They ought to have it ready in two days."
Bannon sat for a moment, then he arose and looked at his watch.
"I'm going to leave you, Pete," he said, as he put on his collar.
"Where're you going?"
"I've got to get up to the city to make the ten o'clock train. I'm going up to Ledyard to get the cribbing. Be back in a couple 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. Finally he asked, "Why do you think we'd hold you up if we had the cars?"
"That's what I came here to find out. I think you're mistaken about not having them."
The superintendent laughed. "You can't expect to know more about that than I do. You doubtless understand your business, but this is my business. If you can tell me where the cars are, you can have them."
"Well, as you say, that's your business. But I can tell you. There's a big string of empties – I counted fourteen – on the siding at Victory."
The superintendent looked out of the window and again drummed on the desk. When he spoke again, his manner was more what one would expect from a division superintendent. "You don't know anything about it. When we want advice how to run our road we'll ask you for it. Victory isn't in my division anyway."
"Then wire the general manager. He ought to know something about it."
"Wire him yourself, if you like. I can't bother about it. I'm sorry I can't do anything, but I haven't got time."
"I haven't begun sending telegrams yet. And I haven't very much more time to fool away. I'd like to have you find out if the Ledyard Salt and Lumber Company can have those cars that are on the siding at Victory."
"All right," said the superintendent, rising. At the door he turned back to ask, "When was it you saw them?"
Bannon decided to chance it. "Yesterday morning," he said.
The superintendent returned presently, and, turning to his desk, resumed his work. A few minutes later the telegraph operator came in and told him that the cars at Victory had been loaded with iron truss work the night before, and had gone off down the State.
"Just too late, wasn't I?" said Bannon. "That's hard luck." He went to the window and, staring out into the yards, began tapping idly with his pencil on the glass. The office door was open, and when he paused he heard the telegraph instrument just without, clicking out a message.
"Anything else I can do for you?" asked the superintendent. His good humor was returning at the sight of his visitor's perplexity.
"I wish you'd just wire the general manager once more and ask him if he can't possibly let us have those cars."
"All right," said the other, cheerfully. He nodded to the operator. "For the Ledyard Salt and Lumber Company," he said.
Bannon dropped into a chair, stretched himself, and yawned. "I'm sleepy," he said; "haven't had any sleep in three weeks. Lost thirty-two pounds. If you fellows had only got that cribbing down on time, I'd be having a vacation – "
Another yawn interrupted him. The telegraph receiver had begun giving out the general manager's answer.
Tell-Ledyard-we-hope-to-have-cars-in-a-few-days-
The superintendent looked at Bannon, expecting him to finish his sentence, but he only yawned again.
obey-previous-instructions. – Do-not-give-Ledyard-cars-in-any-case-
Bannon's eyes were half closed, but the superintendent thought he was turning a little toward the open doorway.
"Do you feel cold?" he asked. "I'll shut the door."
He rose quickly and started toward it, but Bannon was there before him. He hesitated, his hand on the knob.
"Why don't you shut it?" snapped the superintendent.
"I think I'll – I think I'll send a telegram."
"Here's a blank, in here. Come in." But Bannon had slipped out and was standing beside the operator's table. From the doorway the superintendent saw him biting his pencil and frowning over a bit of paper. The general manager's message was still coming in.
We-don't-help-put-up-any-grain-elevator-in-Chicago-these-days.
As the last click sounded, Bannon handed his message to the operator. "Send it collect," he said. With that he strode away, over the hand rail, this time, and down the stairs. The operator carried the message to the superintendent.
"It seems to be for you," he said.
The superintendent read —
Div. Supt. G. & M., Blake City. Tell manager it takes better man than him to tie us up.
MacBride & Company.
Bannon had nearly an hour to wait for the next train back to Ledyard, but it was not time wasted, for as he paced the smoky waiting room, he arrived at a fairly accurate estimate of the meaning of the general manager's message.
It was simply a confirmation of the cautious prediction he had made to Peterson the night before. Why should any one want to hinder the construction of an elevator in Chicago "these days" except to prevent its use for the formal delivery of grain which the buyer did not wish delivered? And why had Page & Company suddenly ordered a million bushel annex? Why had they suddenly become anxious that the elevator should be ready to receive grain before January first, unless they wished to deliver a vast amount of December wheat? Before Bannon's train came in he understood it all. A clique of speculators had decided to corner wheat, an enterprise nearly enough impossible in any case, but stark madness unless they had many millions at command. It was a long chance, of course, but after all not wonderful that some one in their number was a power in the reorganized G. & M.
Already the immense amount of wheat in Chicago was testing the capacity of the registered warehouses, and plainly, if the Calumet K should be delayed long enough, it might prevent Page & Company from carrying out their contract to deliver two million bushels of the grain, even though it were actually in the cars in Chicago.
Bannon knew much of Page & Company; that dotted all over the vast wheat tracts of Minnesota and Montana were their little receiving elevators where they bought grain of the farmers; that miles of wheat-laden freight cars were already lumbering eastward along the railroad lines of the North. He had a touch of imagination, and something of the enormous momentum of that Northern wheat took possession of him. It would come to Chicago, and he must be ready for it. It would be absurd to be balked by the refusal of a little single-track road up in Michigan to carry a pile of planks.
He paused before the grated window of the ticket and telegraph office and asked for a map. He studied it attentively for a while; then he sent a telegram: —
MacBride & Company, Minneapolis: G. & M. R. R. wants to tie us up. Will not furnish cars to carry our cribbing. Can't get it elsewhere inside of three weeks. Find out if Page will O. K. any bill of extras I send in for bringing it down. If so, can they have one or more steam barges at Manistogee within forty-eight hours? Wire Ledyard Hotel. C. H. Bannon.
It was an hour's ride back to Ledyard. He went to the hotel and persuaded the head waiter to give him something to eat, although it was long after the dinner hour. As he left the dining room, the clerk handed him two telegrams. One read: —
Get cribbing down. Page pays the freight. Brown.
The other: —
Steam barge Demosthenes leaves Milwaukee to-night for Manistogee. Page & Co.
CHAPTER IV
As Bannon was paying for his dinner, he asked the clerk what sort of a place Manistogee was. The clerk replied that he had never been there, but that he understood it was quite a lively town.
"Good road over there?"
"Pretty fair."
"That means you can get through if you're lucky."
The clerk smiled. "It won't be so bad to-day. You see we've been getting a good deal of rain. That packs down the sand. You ought to get there all right. Were you thinking of driving over?"
"That's the only way to go, is it? Well, I'll see. Maybe a little later. How far is it?"
"The farmers call it eighteen miles."
Bannon nodded his thanks and went back to Sloan's office.
"Well, it didn't take you long," said the magnate. "Find out what was the matter with 'em?"
He enjoyed his well-earned reputation for choler, and as Bannon told him what he had discovered that morning, the old man paced the room in a regular beat, pausing every time he came to a certain tempting bit of blank wall to deal it a thump with his big fist. When the whole situation was made clear to him, he stopped walking and cursed the whole G. & M. system, from the ties up. "I'll make 'em smart for that," he said. "They haul those planks whether they want to or not. You hear me say it. There's a law that covers a case like that. I'll prosecute 'em. They'll see whether J. B. Sloan is a safe kind of man to monkey with. Why, man," he added, turning sharply to Bannon, "why don't you get mad? You don't seem to care – no more than the angel Gabriel."
"I don't care a damn for the G. & M. I want the cribbing."
"Don't you worry. I'll have the law on those fellows – "
"And I'd get the stuff about five years from now, when I was likely enough dead."
"What's the best way to get it, according to your idea?"
"Take it over to Manistogee in wagons and then down by barges."
Sloan snorted. "You'd stand a chance to get some of it by Fourth of July that way."
"Do you want to bet on that proposition?"
Sloan made no reply. He had allowed his wrath to boil for a few minutes merely as a luxury. Now he was thinking seriously of the scheme. "It sounds like moonshine," he said at last, "but I don't know as it is. How are you going to get your barges?"
"I've got one already. It leaves Milwaukee to-night."
Sloan looked him over. "I wish you were out of a job," he said. Then abruptly he went on: "Where are your wagons coming from? You haven't got them all lined up in the yard now, have you? It'll take a lot of them."
"I know it. Well, we'll get all there are in Ledyard. There's a beginning. And the farmers round here ain't so very fond of the G. & M., are they? Don't they think the railroad discriminates against them – and ain't they right about it? I never saw a farmer yet that wouldn't grab a chance to get even with a railroad."
"That's about right, in this part of the country, anyway."
"You get up a regular circus poster saying what you think of the G. & M., and call on the farmers to hitch up and drive to your lumber yard. We'll stick that up at every crossroads between here and Manistogee."
Sloan was scribbling on a memorandum pad before Bannon had finished speaking. He made a false start or two, but presently got something that seemed to please him. He rang for his office boy, and told him to take it to the Eagle office.
"It's got to be done in an hour," said Bannon. "That's when the procession moves," he added; as Sloan looked at him questioningly.
The other nodded. "In an hour," he said to the office boy. "What are you going to do in an hour?" he asked, as the boy went out.
"Why, it'll be four o'clock then, and we ought to start for Manistogee as early as we can."
"We! Well, I should think not!" said Sloan.
"You're going to drive me over with that fast mare of yours, aren't you?"
Sloan laughed. "Look at it rain out there."
"Best thing in the world for a sand road," said Bannon. "And we'll wash, I guess. Both been wet before."
"But it's twenty-five miles over there – twenty-five to thirty."
Bannon looked at his watch. "We ought to get there by ten o'clock, I should think."
"Ten o'clock! What do you think she is – a sawhorse! She never took more than two hours to Manistogee in her life."
The corners of Bannon's mouth twitched expressively. Sloan laughed again. "I guess it's up to me this time," he said.
Before they started Sloan telephoned to the Eagle office to tell them to print a full-sized reproduction of his poster on the front page of the Ledyard Evening Eagle.
"Crowd their news a little, won't it?" Bannon asked.
Sloan shook his head. "That helps 'em out in great shape."
The Eagle did not keep them waiting. The moment Sloan pulled up his impatient mare before the office door, the editor ran out, bare-headed, in the rain, with the posters.
"They're pretty wet yet," he said.
"That's all right. I only want a handful. Send the others to my office. They know what to do with 'em."
"I was glad to print them," the editor went on deferentially. "You have expressed our opinion of the G. & M. exactly."
"Guess I did," said Sloan as they drove away. "The reorganized G. & M. decided they didn't want to carry him around the country on a pass."
Bannon pulled out one of the sheets and opened it on his knee. He whistled as he read the first sentence, and swore appreciatively over the next. When he had finished, he buttoned the waterproof apron and rubbed his wet hands over his knees. "It's grand," he said. "I never saw anything like it."
Sloan spoke to the mare. He had held her back as they jolted over the worn pavement of cedar blocks, but now they had reached the city limits and were starting out upon the rain-beaten sand. She was a tall, clean-limbed sorrel, a Kentucky-bred Morgan, and as she settled into her stride, Bannon watched her admiringly. Her wet flanks had the dull sheen of bronze.
"Don't tell me," said Sloan, "that Michigan roads are no good for driving. You never had anything finer than this in your life." They sped along as on velvet, noiselessly save when their wheels sliced through standing pools of water. "She can keep this up till further notice, I suppose," said Bannon. Sloan nodded.
Soon they reached the first crossroad. There was a general store at one corner, and, opposite, a blacksmith's shop. Sloan pulled up and Bannon sprang out with a hammer, a mouthful of tacks, and three or four of the posters. He put them up on the sheltered side of conspicuous trees, left one with the storekeeper, and another with the smith. Then they drove on.
They made no pretence at conversation. Bannon seemed asleep save that he was always ready with his hammer and his posters whenever Sloan halted the mare. The west wind freshened as the evening came on and dashed fine, sleety rain into their faces. Bannon huddled his wet coat closer about him. Sloan put the reins between his knees and pulled on a pair of heavy gloves.
It had been dark for half an hour – Bannon could hardly distinguish the moving figure of the mare – when Sloan spoke to her and drew her to a walk. Bannon reached for his hammer. "No crossroad here," said Sloan. "Bridge out of repair. We've got to fetch a circle here up to where she can wade it."
"Hold on," said Bannon sharply. "Let me get out."
"Don't be scared. We'll make it all right."
"We! Yes, but will fifteen hundred feet of lumber make it? I want to take a look."
He splashed forward in the dark, but soon returned. "It's nothing that can't be fixed in two hours. Where's the nearest farmhouse?"
"Fifty rods up the road to your right."
Again Bannon disappeared. Presently Sloan heard the deep challenge of a big dog. He backed the buggy around up against the wind so that he could have shelter while he waited. Then he pulled a spare blanket from under the seat and threw it over the mare. At the end of twenty minutes, he saw a lantern bobbing toward him.
The big farmer who accompanied Bannon held the lantern high and looked over the mare. "It's her all right," he said. Then he turned so that the light shone full in Sloan's face. "Good evening, Mr. Sloan," he said. "You'll excuse me, but is what this gentleman tells me all straight?"
"Guess it is," Sloan smiled. "I'd bank on him myself."
The farmer nodded with satisfaction. "All right then, Mr. What's-your-name. I'll have it done for you."
Sloan asked no questions until they had forded the stream and were back on the road. Then he inquired, "What's he going to do?"
"Mend the bridge. I told him it had to be done to-night. Said he couldn't. Hadn't any lumber. Couldn't think of it I told him to pull down the lee side of his house if necessary; said you'd give him the lumber to build an annex on it."
"What!"
"Oh, it's all right. Send the bill to MacBride. I knew your name would go down and mine wouldn't."
The delay had proved costly, and it was half-past seven before they reached the Manistogee hotel.
"Now," said Bannon, "we'll have time to rub down the mare and feed her before I'm ready to go back."
Sloan stared at him for a moment in unfeigned amazement. Then slowly he shook his head. "All right, I'm no quitter. But I will say that I'm glad you ain't coming to Ledyard to live."
Bannon left the supper table before Sloan had finished, and was gone nearly an hour. "It's all fixed up," he said when he returned. "I've cinched the wharf."
They started back as they had come, in silence, Bannon crowding as low as possible in his ulster, dozing. But he roused when the mare, of her own accord, left the road at the detour for the ford.
"You don't need to do that," he said. "The bridge is fixed." So they drove straight across, the mare feeling her way cautiously over the new-laid planks.
The clouds were thinning, so that there was a little light, and Bannon leaned forward and looked about.
"How did you get hold of the message from the general manager?" asked Sloan abruptly.
"Heard it. I can read Morse signals like print. Used to work for the Grand Trunk."
"What doing?"
"Boss of a wrecking gang." Bannon paused. Presently he went on.
"Yes, there was two years when I slept with my boots on. Didn't know a quiet minute. Never could tell what I was going to get up against. I never saw two wrecks that were anything alike. There was a junction about fifty miles down the road where they used to have collisions regular; but they were all different. I couldn't figure out what I was going to do till I was on the ground, and then I didn't have time to. My only order was, 'Clear the road – and be damn quick about it. 'What I said went. I've set fire to fifty thousand dollars' worth of mixed freight just to get it out of the way – and they never kicked. That ain't the kind of life for me, though. No, nor this ain't, either. I want to be quiet. I've never had a chance yet, and I've been looking for it ever since I was twelve years old. I'd like to get a little farm and live on it all by myself. I'd raise garden truck, cabbages, and such, and I'd take piano lessons."
"Is that why you quit the Grand Trunk? So that you could take piano lessons?" Sloan laughed as he asked the question, but Bannon replied seriously: —
"Why, not exactly. There was a little friction between me and the master mechanic, so I resigned. I didn't exactly resign, either," he added a moment later. "I wired the superintendent to go to hell. It came to the same thing."
"I worked for a railroad once myself," said Sloan. "Was a hostler in the round-house at Syracuse, New York. I never worked up any higher than that. I had ambitions to be promoted to the presidency, but it didn't seem very likely, so I gave it up and came West."
"You made a good thing of it. You seem to own most all Pottawatomie County."
"Pretty much."
"I wish you would tell me how to do it. I have worked like an all-the-year-round blast furnace ever since I could creep, and never slighted a job yet, but here I am – can't call my soul my own. I have saved fifteen thousand dollars, but that ain't enough to stop with. I don't see why I don't own a county too."