"Moreno—twelve-ten. Shall I wire ahead for a private table?" Brockway asked, eager to preface his unwelcome purpose with some small token of service.
"By no means; we are no better than the patrons of your company. What is good enough for them ought to suffice for us."
"Of course, if you don't wish it," Brockway began; and then the plunge: "I am in charge of the excursionists in this car, and they want it placed behind yours. If you will kindly consent to humor their whim——" He stopped in deference to the frown of displeasure which was gradually overspreading the President's brow.
"And so make our private car a thoroughfare for everybody," said he, indignantly; then, with a sudden turn which confused Brockway until he saw its drift, "But you are quite right; the patrons of your company should always be considered first. We are only guests. By all means, make the change at the first opportunity."
"Please don't misunderstand me," Brockway said, courageously. "I didn't propose it. If you object, just say so, and I'll see them all hanged first."
The President shook his head reprovingly, and Brockway fancied he could feel the cold gray eyes pinning him against the partition.
"Certainly not; I am afraid you don't sufficiently consider your duty to your employers. I not only authorize the change—I desire it. I shall request it if you do not."
Brockway winced under the patronizing tone, but he was determined not to let pride stand in the way of better things. So he said, "Thank you for helping me out. I'll have the change made at the dinner station, and we'll try not to annoy you any more than we can help."
That ended it, and he was no nearer the penetralia of car Naught-fifty than before. Mr. Vennor turned to go, but at the door he bethought him of the crippled range.
"A water-pipe has burst in our kitchen range," said he. "Can we get it repaired this side of Denver?"