“Well, Simmonds, I suppose you’re just rushed to death, so I’ll not detain you a moment. I want to see one of your men who is less busy, if, indeed, he is here to-night.”
“We’re all here to-night, Steele. I hope you’ve not been dabbling in wheat?”
“Me? No fear. Wheat’s rather out of my line.”
“Somebody’s going to get badly hurt before the week is out.”
“So I understand,” said Steele nonchalantly, as if it were none of his affair. “By the way, talking of wheat, you gather statistics of the crops from all over the country, don’t you—your company, I mean?”
“Oh, yes, several times a year.”
“From what office is that done, New York or Chicago?”