"Go on, go on," called the politician, crossly, glancing up from his time-table. "Have you foundered halfway?"
"Nope. You didn't say where to."
"New York, New York."
"Yep," said William, placidly. "What train?"
Shelby left off staring at his blotter for an instant, to fling him the information. William Irons rubbed one long leg against its fellow as he leaned to the telephone and ruminated the mystery of this impending flight into what was for him the great unknown. This air of suppressed excitement had never attended Shelby's departures.
"Goin' to use it yourself?" he inquired.
"Is the station agent aching to know?"
"Nope," returned William, frankly. "He didn't ask."
"Then you needn't. Now get Mr. Bowers's residence, and ask if he is there."
"Got him," announced the clerk presently, as if he had trapped a rat, and stood expectantly aside. To his disappointment Shelby merely made an immediate appointment at the Bowers's home. More bitter still, he took the message with him.