"Yes?"
"I presume you know about me,—Buffalo Jones, of Garden City."
"Well," began the President, "I know a lot of Joneses, but where is Garden City?"
"Down the road a piece, 'bout half-way between Wakefield and Turner's Tank. I want you folks to put in a switch there,—that's what I've come about. I'd like to have it in this week."
"Anybody living at Garden City?"
"Yes, all that's there's livin'."
"About how many?"
"One and a half when I'm away,—Swede and Injin."
The President of the Santa Fé smiled and rolled his lead pencil between the palms of his hands. Mr. Jones watched him and pitied him, as one watches and pities a child who is fooling with firearms. "He don't know I'm loaded," thought Jones.
"Well," said the President, "when you get your town started so that there will be some prospect of getting a little business, we shall be only too glad to put in a spur for you."