“Nonsense!” said Manson severely. “Go back to your desk; and let this rest for a day or two. I’ll see the manager about it later on.” He noticed the moisture in the younger man’s eyes, and the quiver of his nether lip, so he spoke coldly. Emotion has no place in the railway business.
“No, sir, I’d never feel comfortable again. There’s lots of work waiting for me, and it won’t have to wait long. I’m going for it as I went for Mr. Blair’s waistcoat. But I want to tell you, Mr. Manson, that—that all the boys know you’re a brick, who’ll stand by them if they—if they do the square thing.”
And as if his disaster had not been caused by his precipitance, the youth bolted headlong from the room before Manson could frame a reply.
The division superintendent put on his hat and left the room less hurriedly than John had done. He made his way to that sumptuous edifice known as the University Club. The social organisation which it housed had long numbered Manson as a member, but he was a most infrequent visitor. He walked direct to the cosiest corner of the large reading-room, and there, in a luxurious arm-chair, found, as he had expected, the Hon. Duffield Rogers, an aged gentleman with a gray beard on his chin and a humourous twinkle in his eye. Mr. Rogers was a millionaire over and over again, yet he was president of the poorest railway in the State, known as the Burdock Route, whose eastern terminus was in the Grand Union which Manson had just left. Rogers occupied a largely ornamental position on the Burdock, as he did in the arm-chair of the club. He was surrounded by a disarray of newspapers on the floor, and allowed the one he was holding to fall on the pile as he looked up with a smile on seeing Manson approach.
“Hallo, Manson! Is the Midland going to pay a dividend, that you’ve got an afternoon off?”
“What do you know about dividends?” asked Manson, with a laugh. He seemed a much more jocular person at the club than in the railway-office, and he was not above giving a sly dig at the Burdock Route, which had never paid a dividend since it was opened.
“Oh! I read about ’em in the papers,” replied the Hon. Duffield serenely. “How’s that old stick-in-the-mud Blair? I’m going to ask the committee of this club to expel him. He has the cheek to swell around here, in my presence, and pretend he knows something about railroading. I’d stand that from you, but not from T. Acton Blair. He forgets I’m president of a road, while he’s only a general manager. I tell him I rank with Rockervelt, and not with mere G. M’s.”
The old millionaire laughed so heartily at his own remarks that some of the habitués of the reading-room looked sternly at the framed placard above the mantelshelf which displayed in large black letters the word “Silence.” Manson drew up a chair beside the old man and said earnestly:
“I came in to see you on business, Mr. Rogers. There is a young fellow in my office who will develop into one of the best railroad men of our time. I want you to find a place for him on your line.”
“Oh! we’re not taking on any new men. Just the reverse. We laid off the general manager and about fifteen lesser officials a month ago, and we don’t miss ’em in the least. I’ve been trying to resign for the past year, but they won’t let me, because I don’t ask any salary.”