"He stole 'em, those coal lands. He jugged 'em thro' Land Office records with false entries." The telegraph man had lowered his voice.
"We don't call 'em stolen when it's been the making of the Valley."
"No, because the Smelter is a sacred cow mustn't be touched for the sake of the grease."
"Then, there was nothing doing in lumber; big fellows wouldn't come in and develop. Well, Moyese got 'em the timber tracts for a song. Other men couldn't, wouldn't or didn't dare. He delivered the goods—"
"The courage of the highwayman," commented the wire editor with a puff.
"We don't call it that when it helps the Valley," corrected the handy man.
"No, it's another sacred bovine; mustn't be touched for fear of the axle grease. See? I've got a list of 'em—public lands, through freights, water power, smelter, lumber deals," the telegraph man opened his table drawer and held out a scrawled list. "If you call that delivering the goods, I call it filling the barrel. What's the other factor for success?"
"Not bucking into a buzz saw. The world is mostly made of barkers and builders. You fellows spend all the time barking. Then you wonder there's nothing to show in the way of a building."
The telegraph wires began to click and the girl operator came in with some tissue sheets.
"Fight in Frisco—that goes," commented the telegraph editor dashing in the "ands" and "buts" and the punctuation. He stuck the slip on the printer's hook. "Wedding in Newport—"