"I am going home, if that's what you mean," replied Bart—"as soon as my father comes."
"Not feeling very well lately, eh?" continued Lem, his eyes roving in a covetous way over the cozy office and the comfortable railroad armchair Mr. Stirling used. "No wonder, he takes it too hard."
"Does he?" retorted Bart.
"You bet he does. Wish I had his job. I'd make people wait to suit my ideas. How's the company to know or care if you break your neck to accommodate people? Too honest, too."
"A man can't be too honest," asserted Bart.
"Can't he? Say, I'm an old railroader, I am, and I know the ropes. Why, when I was running the express office at Corydon, we sampled everything that came in. Crate of bananas—we had many a lunch, apples, cigars, once in a while a live chicken, and always a couple of turkeys at holiday time."
"And who paid for them?" inquired Bart bluntly.
"We didn't, and no questions asked."
"I am afraid your ideas will not make much impression on my father, if that is what you are getting at," observed Bart, turning unceremoniously from Wacker.
"Humph! you fellows ought to run a backwoods post office," disgustedly grunted the latter, as he made off.