Again I replied, “Never.”
The special agent’s final question, the one I was hoping he would ask me: “Where do you ship your corn?”
I said, “To the Greenleaf-Baker people in Atchison, as always.”
Reckeway’s countenance showed surprise, if not real anger. The agents both laughed.
Turning to Agent Larkin, the special agent asked: “Has he told the truth in all three instances?”
“Absolutely,” said my chicken-owner friend.
“Then, give him every other car,” said my newly found friend.
And Mr. Reckeway stalked out mumbling in jumbled English and German, of which I could catch only, “A man with two elevators—.” My reputation was now redeemed.
The so-called “Board of Trade” had long since passed out. It was never a Board of Trade, anyway. Its operations were limited to the sale of one old canning factory building, and the location of Mr. Reckeway—that is, if we do not choose to count the location of Mr. Abbott. You know, I was a member of the Board, with dues and absentee penalties paid in full.
Now, let’s get this straight. I wouldn’t have been so resentful as to induce a live merchant like Mr. Abbott to move in on the homefolk. I just told him of the behavior of some of the Board members, and that I might have to deny him space in my paper. “Oh,” he said, “I don’t believe you will want to do that to me.” He winked. Well, I didn’t—really.