"Why not?"
"But—that piece about yourself?" grinned Mike. "You darsen't to do it."
"I think I get his point," nodded Mallinsbee, his broad face beaming admiration. "Sort of local color, I guess."
Gordon twisted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. His blue eyes were shining with a sort of earnest amusement. His sharp white teeth were gripping the mangled end of his cigar firmly.
"Say, fellows," he said, after a moment's thought, "I'm kind of wondering if you get just what this thing means to me. It just needs a sum in dollars to get its meaning to you. But for me it's different. I need to make dollars, too. But still it's different. You see, some day I've got to sit right in my father's chair, and run things with a capital of millions of dollars. But before I do that I've got to get right up and convince my father I can handle the work right. He doesn't figure I can act that way—yet. So it's up to me to show him I can. Well, I've started in, and I'm going to see the game through to the end. I've backed my wits to push this boat right into harbor safe. And in doin' that I've got to squeeze the biggest financier in the country. When I've done it right, that financier will know he can hand over his particular craft to my steering without fear of my running it on the rocks. The dollars I need to make out of this are just a circumstance. They are the outward sign of my fitness for my father's edification. That piece about my representing my father isn't just local color either. I actually intend to assume that character, and, from now on, I intend to work direct with headquarters, ordering the whole transaction for the railroad myself in my own name. Do you get me? From now on I am my father's representative. If Spenser Harker chooses to come right along here, if the general manager of the Union Grayling chooses to come along, I shall meet them, and insist that the work goes through. You see, I am my father's son, I am still his secretary, and they have word in private code from my father that I represent him. There can be no debate. All they know of me is that I left New York on confidential work for my father. Well, this, I guess, is the confidential work. Gentlemen, we've simply got to sit right back and help ourselves to our profits. And while we're doing that, why, I guess the dear old dad is taking his well-earned vacation in the hills, while David Slosson is feeling a nasty draught through the chinks in an old adobe and log shack which I hope will blow the foul odors out of his fouler mind. You can leave the after part of this play safely in my hands. Meanwhile, if you'll just give me five minutes I'll code this message. Then we'll drive right into town and send it over the wire."
Sunday in an obscure country hotel on the western plains is usually the dullest thing on earth. The habit of years is a whitewash of respectability and a moderation of tone, both assumed through the medium of a complete change of attire from that worn during the week. There is nothing on earth but the loss by fire, or the definite destruction of them, which will stop the citizen, who possesses such things, from arraying himself in a "best suit." It is the outward sign of an attempted cleansing of the soul. There can be no doubt of it. That suit is not adjusted for the purpose of holiday enjoyment. That is quite plain. For each man is as careful not to do anything that can destroy the crease down his trousers, as he is not to sit on the tails of his well-brushed Prince Albert coat.
The day is spent in just "sitting around." The citizen will talk. That is not calculated to spoil his suit. He will even write his mail after a careful adjustment of the knees of his trousers. He will sneak into the bar by a back door to obtain an "eye-opener." This, again, will involve no great risk to his suit. Then he will dine liberally off roast turkey and pie of some sort. If the hotel is fairly well priced he will even get an ice-cream with his midday dinner. In the afternoon he will again sit around and talk. He may even venture a walk. Then comes the evening supper. It is the worst function of a dreary day—a meal made up of cakes, preserves, tea or coffee, and any cold meats left over during the week.
After that the "best suits" somehow seem to fade out of sight, and a generally looser tone prevails.
Such had been the Sundays in Snake's Fall since ever the town had boasted an hotel with boarding accommodation. No guest had ever dared to break through the tradition. It would have required heroic courage to have done so. But now changes in the town were rapidly taking place. So rapidly, indeed, that the times might well have been characterized as "breathless."
On this particular Sunday a perfect revolution was in progress. Amongst the older inhabitants who managed to drift to the vicinity of the hotel a feeling of unreality took possession of them, and they wondered if it were not some curious and not altogether pleasant dream. The hotel was thronged with a blending of strangers and townspeople, clad, regardless of the day, in a state of excitement such as might only have been expected at the declaration of a world war, or a presidential election.