"None of it's come my way," said Steve, lighting his cigar. "But that's always the way. We get shunted to a bum town like this on a branch, and they pay us salary according. If the city makes a break and gets busy and we're nearly crazy with overwork they don't boost us up. Overwork don't mean overpay, nor overtime. They ain't raised me a dollar. I'm going to get right on the buck if things keep up. I tell you I've eaten three meals in this office to-day, with my hand on the key, and I—I'm just sick to death. I don't take or send again this night."
"Guess you'll be able to make a break when you sell your holdings," McSwain went on sympathetically. He raised the barrier and stepped into the office, and sat himself in a chair he had often occupied in the unruffled days before the coal.
Steve laughed and sat himself on the corner of his instrument table.
"I ain't got no holding. You can't buy land on a hundred dollars a month. No, sir. What with the Chinee laundry and my boarding-house, I guess I need to smoke your 'multiflavums' and drink your worst rye. Why, I ain't got a balance over to buy an ice-cream-soda in winter."
"You sure are badly staked," murmured Peter.
They smoked in silence for some moments. The atmosphere of the little office was opening the pores of Peter's skin again.
"Say," he went on presently, mopping his brow carefully, "I made quite a stake out of that agent feller, Slosson. Somewheres around ten thousand dollars. Quite a piece of money, eh? I ain't sure he's a fool or a pretty wise guy."
"He's the railroad man," said Steve significantly.
"Yes. That don't make him out a fool, does it?"
"I'd smile."