“Say, Jarvis, have you seen anything of Harry Antrim this evening?”
The reporter nodded. “Um-hm; saw him heading for his office half an hour ago, plugging along with his head down and his hands in his pockets. What’s struck him lately?”
“I don’t know,” replied the bearwarden truthfully enough; “much obliged.” But when he would have gone on, Jarvis turned and went with him.
“Going to hunt him up? I’ll mog along with you. The old man says the president of the C. E. & W. is coming in on a special, and I’d like to get the facts for an item.”
“Can’t you telephone?” asked Brant, remembering the nature of his errand.
“I suppose I could, but I don’t mind the walk. Say, it’s queer about Harry, isn’t it? Never saw a man let go all holds at once like he has.”
“He will get over it; it’s nothing worse than a fit of the blues,” said Brant, taxing his ingenuity meanwhile for an expedient which would rid him of the reporter.
“Blues nothing! Fit of the ‘jimmies,’ if he doesn’t pull up pretty short. He isn’t built right to carry bug juice in bulk, and that is just about what he is trying to do.”
“What was it you said to me about preaching last night?” asked Brant, as they climbed the stair to the railway offices.
“Never mind about that; you were preaching at me, and I didn’t need it. Now, with a fellow like Harry it’s different——”