At Galt’s speech the traffic manager crossed his legs with amazement, dropped his arms, slid down in his chair, bowed his neck and assumed the look of an incredulous bull, showing the white under his eyes.
“And who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Me?” said Galt. “I’m the driver.”
“We’ll see,” said the traffic manager. He rose, overturning his chair, and made for the door, meaning of course to see the president.
“You’d better wait a minute,” said Galt. “I’m not through yet.”
He waited.
Then Galt, addressing the assistants, outlined a new policy. What they were to work for was through freight, passing from one end of the system to the other. What they were to avoid was anything they wouldn’t like a railroad to do to them. What they were to believe in was a gang spirit. What they were to get immediately was a doubling of their pay.
Getting down on the floor he advanced slowly with a stealthy step at the traffic manager, who began to quail.
“You choose whether to resign or be fired,” said Galt. “The first assistant will take your place.” He added something in a lower tone that no one else could hear, then stood looking at him fixedly. The traffic manager started, mopped the back of his neck, wavered, and stood quite still.
“Well, it’s damned high time,” he said, at last, by way of mentioning a basic fact. With that he sat down and wrote his resignation.