Winston was an engineer and he was not impervious to a stimulating thrill at the exhibition of power and progress of which the train was a type, from the ponderous, six-wheeled locomotive, to the last car of the shining train that it dragged. This thrill did not interfere with business and he had imperative, pressing business on hand. His quick eye singled out the man for whom he was waiting and almost as quickly he was by his side.
"Good morning, Mr. Seymour."
Without any haste, Seymour's grip was in his hand, and with no conscious volition on his part, Seymour was threading his way at Winston's side through the throng of disembarking passengers, those waiting for incoming friends, curious loafers, and rattling express trucks.
"Have you had breakfast?" Winston hardly paused, as they left the station and came out upon the gravelly, palm-fringed walk.
"Yes, and a good one too. The dining service has improved. Couldn't do much better in New York."
"That's a good deal for a New Yorker to say. It's worth money to the road; at least, it would be if they got hold of it."
"What's the program for today?" Mr. Seymour dropped pleasantries.
"If you're not tired, we'll go to the office at once. They are expecting us."
"Will Mr. Berl be there?"
"No. Not today."