"Mr. Richard Brice?—the general manager of the D. & U. P.?"
The president nodded.
"That's great luck," said Ballard, warmly. "We were classmates in the Institute, and I haven't seen him since he came West. I think I'll ride in the Naught-eight till bedtime."
"Glad you know him," said the president. "Get in a good word for our railroad connection with his line at Alta Vista, while you're about it. There is your signal; good-by, and good luck to you. Don't forget—'drive' is the word; for every man, minute, and dollar there is in it."
Ballard shook the presidential hand and swung up to the platform of the private car. A reluctant porter admitted him, and thus it came about that he did not see the interior of his own sleeper until long after the other passengers had gone to bed.
"Good load to-night, John?" he said to the porter, when, the private car visit being ended, the man was showing him to his made-down berth.
"Yes, sah; mighty good for de branch. But right smart of dem is ladies, and dey don't he'p de po' portah much."
"Well, I'll pay for one of them, anyway," said the Kentuckian, good-naturedly doubling his tip. "Be sure you rout me out bright and early; I want to get ahead of the crowd."
And he wound his watch and went to bed, serenely unconscious that the hat upon the rail-hook next to his own belonged to Mr. Lester Wingfield; that the hand-bags over which he had stumbled in the dimly lighted aisle were the impedimenta of the ladies Van Bryck; or that the dainty little boots proclaiming the sex—and youth—of his fellow-traveller in the opposite Number Six were the foot-gear of Miss Elsa Craigmiles.