“There ain’t none,” was the brusque reply of the porter he questioned, who appeared to be the only specimen of that genus upon the station.
“Then I guess I must have a special,” returned Haverly. “Where’s your boss?”
“Here he comes,” was the response, as the station-master approached. “This gent wants a special, Mister Burnside.”
“Special, eh?” remarked the official; “it’ll cost you sixty pound.”
“If it cost six hundred I should have to have one,” returned the millionaire. “I haven’t the dollars with me, but I can give you a cheque.”
“Cheque!” exclaimed the station-master scornfully. “I ain’t taking no risks. How do I know as the bank would honour it? Nice sight I’d look with a cheque as wasn’t worth the paper it’s wrote on, and the comp’ny coming down on me for sixty quid. What say, William?”
The porter agreed heartily with this verdict of his chief.
“Say,” put in Haverly, somewhat irritably, “here’s my card. I reckon you’ve heard of me even in these God-forsaken parts. I’m Silas K. Haverly, the millionaire.”
The station-master took the proffered card, but without troubling to read it, he placed a finger beside his nose and gently closed one eye, which piece of dumb show greatly pleased the worthy William.
“Well?” asked Haverly sharply.