“Somers—most of them.”
“And Somers shall have ’em,” said Simeon. He wheeled back again. “Let the Elk Horners run a road of their own. They know so much. Let their press agent get at it—Make cars out o’ wind and haul ’em with talk.” He plunged again into the mail, tearing and gritting his way through. Suddenly there was silence in the room—A long hush—
The young man looked around.
The president of the road was huddled a little forward, his eyes on a letter that his shaking hands tried in vain to steady.
John stepped quickly to his side. But the man did not look up. His eyes seemed glued to the few lines that covered the page. When the shaking hand dropped to the desk, he sat staring at nothing where the lines had been.
John went out noiselessly and mixed an egg and placed it beside him. He knew from the look in Simeon’s face that he had not slept, and he guessed that he had had no breakfast.
“You ’d better take this, sir,” he said quietly.
Simeon’s hand groped a little toward it and drew back. “I tell you I can’t see him,” he said sharply.
“Who is it, sir?”
“Nixon—” He touched the paper beside him. “He wants to talk over rates. I tell you I can’t see him—I can’t!” It was almost a cry.