Buck Ogilvy smote his left palm with his right fist. “And you've waited two hours to confess your crime? Zounds, man, this is bad.”
“I know. Curse me, Buck. I've probably talked you out of a good job.”
“Oh, say not so, old settler. We may still have an out. How did you let the cat out of the bag?”
“That remarkable girl called me up, and accused you of being a mere screen for me and amazed me so I admitted it.”
Ogilvy dropped his red head in simulated agony and moaned. Presently he raised it and said: “Well, it might have been worse. Think of what might have happened had she called in person. She would have picked your pocket for the corporate seal, the combination of the safe, and the list of stockholders, and probably ended up by gagging you and binding you in your own swivel-chair.”
“Don't, Buck. Comfort and not abuse is what I need now.”
“All right. I'll conclude my remarks by stating that I regard you as a lovable fat-head devoid of sufficient mental energy to pound the proverbial sand into the proverbial rat-hole. Now, then, what do you want me to do to save the day?”
“Deliver to me by six o'clock Thursday night a temporary franchise from the city council, granting the N. C. O. the right to run a railroad from our drying-yard across Water Street at its intersection with B Street and out Front Street.”
“Certainly. By all means! Easiest thing I do! Sure you don't want me to arrange to borrow a star or two to make a ta-ra-ra for the lady that's made a monkey out of you? No? All right, old dear! I'm on my way to do my damnedest, which angels can't do no more. Nevertheless, for your sins, you shall do me a favour before my heart breaks after falling down on this contract you've just given me.”
“Granted, Buck. Name it.”