"To give you something to talk about. I'm going to send a telegram to a friend of mine in Noo York."
"Aw, you ain't the only one can send telegrams. Sam Graham sent one just now."
"He did!"
"Uh-huh. I was sort of hangin' round, when he came in, and I seen him send it myself."
"Sam Graham telegraphing! Do you know; who to, Tracey?" Roland's superiority is wearing thin under contact with his curiosity. This surprising bit of news makes him distinctly more affable and inclined to lower himself to the social level of the son of the livery-stable keeper.
As for myself, I am inclined to lean out of the window and call Tracey up, lest he get out of hearing before I hear the rest of it. Fortunately I am not thus obliged to compromise my dignity. The two are at pause.
"Gimme a cigarette 'nd I'll tell you," bargains Tracey shrewdly. "Lew Parker told me after Sam'd gone."
The deal is put through promptly.
"He was telegraphin' to—Got a match?"
For once I am in sympathy with Roland, whose tone betrays his desire to wring Tracey's exasperating neck.