"All right," I said, raising my hand in tolerant good humor; "you feel certain there were shortages before your time on the wharf?"
"Yes, I know it—that's why my predecessor lost his job."
"But you don't know just what has been done?" I asked, idly fingering my mail before me.
"No, I don't; but Mr. Powell, the agent, said the packing-house and railroad specials were at a standstill, and the government was so short of men they could not do anything just now. He also said that he had personally asked the local office of the Department of Justice to take it up, and while it was something outside of their line, they promised to coöperate as soon as they had men available. Hang it!" he exclaimed, passing his fingers through his hair, "it ought not to be so hard to smoke 'em out."
"Hiram, I will see what can be done to-morrow. In the meantime lose that 'going-to-hell-sure' long face, and cheer up. I've been living at Barns & Sheds for three months, taking Greek insolence and grease at Greek restaurants until I feel polluted inside, and want one of those——"
"Real porterhouse steaks," he interrupted, laughing as though they had become only a memory.
"Give me a few moments to glance over this mail before we go—here, this ought to interest you, Hiram," I said, discovering one from the chemist to whom I had sent a sample from our partnership barrel in storage.
"Why—how?" he asked, looking sharp as though expecting a joke.
I tore open the letter, first noticing it was nearly three months old. The chemist had replied promptly. I read aloud: