She told Braman to have the money ready for her in an hour, and at the end of that time with her morocco handbag bulging, she emerged from the front door of the bank and climbed the steps of the private car, which had been pulled down to a point in front of the station by the dinky engine, with Murphy presiding at the throttle.
Carson was standing on the platform when Miss Benham climbed to it, and he grinned and greeted her with:
“If ye have no objections, ma’am, I’ll be ridin’ down to the cut with ye. Me name’s Patrick Carson, ma’am.”
“I have no objection whatever,” said the lady, graciously. “I presume you are connected with the railroad?”
“An’ wid the ginneys that’s buildin’ it, ma’am,” he supplemented. “I’m the construction boss av this section, an’ I’m the mon that had the unhappy experience av lookin’ into the business end av ‘Firebrand’s’ six-shooter yisterday.”
“‘Firebrand’s’?” she said, with a puzzled look at him.
“Thot mon, Trevison, ma’am; that’s what they call him. An’ he fits it bedad—beggin’ your pardon.”
“Oh,” she said; “then you know him.” And she felt a sudden interest in Carson.
“Enough to be certain he ain’t to be monkeyed with, ma’am.”
She seemed to ignore this. “Please tell the engineer to go ahead,” she told him. “And then come into the car—I want to talk with you.”