“Don’t know a soul but you,” said Steve truthfully.  “But I have a letter here to the people who are putting the sale through.  Do you know these people?”

“Atwood, Strange & Atwood,” Mitchell read.  “A good, reliable firm.  I don’t know them, but I know of ’em.  They will advise you just as I do.”

“But,” objected Steve, “I want to see a good time.  That’s what I come for.  For instance, I want to see the races.  And naturally, I want to put up a few dollars to make it interesting.”

“Bad business—­bad business,” admonished the elder man wisely.  “I don’t object to a quiet game of cards myself, among friends, and for modest stakes.  But I can’t afford to do anything to hurt my business reputation.  Let a man of small means, like myself, play the ponies, or affect shady company, and what happens?  All the banks know it at once, and shut down on loans instanter.  They keep tab on all business men religiously.”

“What’s your line?” said Steve, impressed.

“Mainly buying on commission for Mexican and South American trade—­though I handle a good many orders for country dealers, too,” replied Mitchell.  “My specialty is agricultural implements, barbed wire, machinery and iron stuff generally, for the export trade.  There’s things about it would surprise you.  Why, such things, farm machinery more especially, retail in Buenos Ayres at from 40 to 60 per cent, of what they do here, after paying freight charges and a snug commission to me.”

“How can they do it?” asked Steve, interested.

Mitchell plunged into an explanation of the workings of the tariff and its effect on home prices.  He had it at his fingers’ end.  Under his skillful hands the dry subject became really interesting, embellished with a wealth of illustration and anecdote.  He was still deep in his exposition, when, beyond Scranton, a hand was laid on his arm.  A dapper, little, dark man, with twinkling, black eyes and pointed black beard, stood in the aisle.

“Well, Mitchell!” he said, with an affectionate pat.  “Still riding your hobby?”

The fat man jumped up, beaming.  “Loring! by all that’s holy!  Let me make you acquainted with my friend.  Mr. Thompson—­Mr. Loring.  Mr. Loring is one of our rising young artists.”

“The rising young artist,” said Loring with a flash of white teeth, “is trying to get up a whist game, to pass away the time.  Will you gentlemen assist?” He turned aside in a paroxysm of coughing.

“Certainly, certainly—­that is, if Mr. Thompson plays.——­That’s a bad cough you’ve got there, Loring.”

“Yes—­caught cold fishing,” said the artist.  “Will you join us, Mr. Thompson?”

“Glad to,” said that worthy.  “Only my game is bumble-puppy.  You can hardly call it whist.  Who’s the fourth?”

“Yet to be found,” laughed Loring.  After a few rebuffs they picked up a drummer, and adjourned to the smoker, buying a deck from the train boy.  The little dark man and Steve played against the other two, a suitcase on their knees serving as a table.  They played a rubber.  Steve verified his statements as to his style of play.