The House of Torchy. Ford Sewell

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СКАЧАТЬ sentence he didn't hesitate to butt in and hand Mr. Runyon a glass of what looked like thin whitewash. Marcus T. would take a sip obedient and then go on with his talk. At last he asks if there's anything special he can do for Mr. Ellins.

      "Why, yes," says Old Hickory, settin' his jaw. "You might call off your highwaymen on that Manitou terminal lease, Runyon. That is, unless you mean to take all of our mining profits."

      Marcus T.'s eyes brighten up. They almost twinkle.

      "Bixby," says he, "what about that? Has there been an increase in the tonnage rate to the Corrugated?"

      "I think so, sir," says Bixby. "I can look it up, sir."

      "Ah!" says Runyon. "Bixby will look it up."

      "He needn't," says Old Hickory. "It's been doubled, that's all. We had the notice last week. Torchy, did you——"

      "Yep!" says I, shootin' the letter at him.

      "Well, well!" says Runyon, after he's gazed at it. "There must have been some well founded cause for such an advance. Bixby, you must——"

      "It's because you think you've got us in a hole," breaks in Old Hickory. "We've got to load our boats and you control the docks."

      "Oh, yes!" chuckles Marcus T. "An unfortunate situation—for you. But I presume there are other dockage facilities available."

      "If there were," says Mr. Ellins sarcastic, "do you think we would be paying you from three to five millions a year?"

      "Bixby, I fear you must explain our position more fully," goes on Mr. Runyon.

      "Oh, certainly," says Bixby. "I will have a full report prepared and—— "

      "Suppose you tell it to my secretary now," insists Old Hickory, glarin' menacin' at him.

      "Do so, Bixby," says Marcus T.

      "Why—er—you see," says Bixby, turnin' to me, "as I understand the case, the only outlet you have to deep water is over our tracks to—— "

      "What about them docks at Three Harbors?" I cuts in.

      "Three Harbors?" repeats Bixby, starin' vague.

      "Precisely," says Marcus T. "As the young man suggests, there is plenty of unemployed dockage at that point. But your ore tracks do not connect with that port."

      "They would if we laid forty miles of rails, branchin' off at Tamarack Junction, " says I. "That spur has all been surveyed and the right of way cleared."

      "Ah!" exclaims Bixby, comin' to life again. "I remember now. Tamarack Junction. We hold a charter for a railroad from there to Three Harbors."

      "You mean you did hold it," says I.

      "I beg pardon?" says Bixby, gawpin'.

      "It lapsed," says I, "eighteen months ago. Here's a copy, O. K.'d by a Minnesota notary public. See the date?"

      "Allow me," says Mr. Runyon, reachin' for it.

      Old Hickory gets up and rubbers over his shoulder. "By George!" says he. "It has lapsed, Runyon. Torchy, where's a map of——"

      "Here you are," says I. "You'll see the branch line sketched in there. That would cut our haul about fifteen miles."

      "And leave you with a lot of vacant ore docks on your hands, eh, Runyon?" puts in Old Hickory. "We could have those rails laid by the time the ice was out of the Soo. Well, well! Throws rather a new light on the situation, doesn't it?"

      Marcus T. turns slow and fixes them keen eyes of his on Bixby the Busy.

      "Hm-m-m!" says he. "It seems that we have overlooked a point, Bixby. Perhaps, though, you can offer——"

      He can. Some shifty private sec, Bixby is.

      "Your milk, sir," says he, grabbin' the tray and shovin' it in front of Runyon.

      For a second or so the great Marcus T. eyes it indignant. Then his shoulders sag, the fire dies out of his eyes, and he takes the glass.

      He's about the best trained plute I ever saw in captivity.

      "And I think the doctor should take your temperature now," adds Bixby. "I will call him."

      As he slips off toward the back end of the car Mr. Runyon lets out a sigh.

      "It's no use, Ellins," says he. "One can't pamper a ruined digestion and still enjoy these friendly little business bouts. One simply can't. Name your own terms for continuing that terminal lease."

      Old Hickory does prompt, for we don't want to buy rails at the price they're bringin' now.

      "And by the way, Runyon," says he, "may I ask what you pay your young man? I'm just curious."

      "Bixby?" says Runyon. "Oh, twenty-five hundred."

      "Huh!" says Mr. Ellins. "My secretary forgets my milk now and then, but he remembers such trifles as lapsed charters. He is drawing three thousand."

      I hope Marcus T. didn't hear the gasp I lets out—I tried to smother it. And the first thing I does when we gets back into the limousine is to grin at the boss.

      "Whaddye mean, three thousand?" says I.

      "Dollars," says he. "Beginning to-day."

      "Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "Going up, up! And there I was plannin' to take a special course in trained nursin', so I could hold my job."

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