“Hard times,” he repeated, a troubled, perplexed note in his voice; “well, yes—yes. I suppose the road DOES have hard times, maybe. Everybody does—of course. I didn't mean that exactly. I believe in being just and fair to everybody. I mean that we've got to use their lines and pay their charges good years AND bad years, the P. and S. W. being the only road in the State. That is—well, when I say the only road—no, I won't say the ONLY road. Of course there are other roads. There's the D. P. and M. and the San Francisco and North Pacific, that runs up to Ukiah. I got a brother-in-law in Ukiah. That's not much of a wheat country round Ukiah though they DO grow SOME wheat there, come to think. But I guess it's too far north. Well, of course there isn't MUCH. Perhaps sixty thousand acres in the whole county—if you include barley and oats. I don't know; maybe it's nearer forty thousand. I don't remember very well. That's a good many years ago. I——”
But Annixter, at the end of all patience, turned to Genslinger, cutting short the old man:
“Oh, rot! Of course the railroad will sell at two-fifty,” he cried. “We've got the contracts.”
“Look to them, then, Mr. Annixter,” retorted Genslinger significantly, “look to them. Be sure that you are protected.”
Soon after this Genslinger took himself away, and Derrick's Chinaman came in to set the table.
“What do you suppose he meant?” asked Broderson, when Genslinger was gone.
“About this land business?” said Annixter. “Oh, I don't know. Some tom fool idea. Haven't we got their terms printed in black and white in their circulars? There's their pledge.”
“Oh, as to pledges,” murmured Broderson, “the railroad is not always TOO much hindered by those.”
“Where's Osterman?” demanded Annixter, abruptly changing the subject as if it were not worth discussion. “Isn't that goat Osterman coming down here to-night?”
“You telephoned him, didn't you, Presley?” inquired Magnus.