“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-Ledyar
d-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.