"Your sample suffered a little in the mail and is too small. Will you oblige me by forwarding a larger one by parcel post? If my guess is right, the market is particularly bare of this class of goods, and I can assure a prompt sale at fancy prices."
"You mean that old barrel of junk—those filings you made me pay three-fifty for a half interest in your foolishness?" he asked, with an incredulous smile.
"Hiram," I began jestingly, "that barrel will make us rich some day; but seriously, I do know it is not castings nor junk. However, this letter is now three months old, and perhaps our best chance has gone."
That night I wired a certain person a code message to the effect that I was willing to handle the New Orleans case. It was either that or some day I'd miss being made best man at Anna Bell's wedding.
CHAPTER XIII
There was little trouble getting the assignment; in fact, the authorities were glad some one was willing to tackle the case, for it had become a nightmare and a stench, but it was a case of "don't begin unless you can finish it." Others had given it up, perhaps because of the press of other work. I was amply warned that it was a hard nut to crack, and I had a fair chance of making a failure of it. Yes, the railroad and packing-house people would coöperate and do all they could. I was told to go over and see Mr. Powell, the New Orleans agent, who all but went crazy over it, and work out a plan with him.
Before night I was on the payroll of the Yazoo, with a private office and a sub-title of some sort under the auditor, having decided to begin on the perishable freight records, or rather it was necessary for me to have them under my hand, as they were set down each day, though with little confidence that they would yield results.
"I don't know what kind of a clerk I can give you, for the whole system is short of help, but I will do the best I can," Mr. Powell assured me, placing at my disposal the voluminous reports on the cases settled, and those that were still pending, unsettled, with the shippers.