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.”