“If that were possible it would have been done long since. You could not get your charter. Rockervelt would buy the Legislature, and we in the West haven’t money enough to outbid him.”
Steele’s clenched fist came down on the map with a force that made the stout table quiver.
“But I’ve got the charter!” he roared, in a voice that made the doorman outside think there was trouble in the reading-room. The Hon. Duffield Rogers sank once more into his arm-chair and gazed at John.
“You’ve got the charter?” he echoed quietly.
“Certainly, and it didn’t cost me a cent. The Governor signed it yesterday.”
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings—” murmured the old man, who had years of experience behind him in the bribing of law-makers. “In Heaven’s name, how did you manage it?”
“I went to the capital, became acquainted with the legislators—splendid fellows, all of them—personal friends of mine now; I showed them how such a link would benefit the State, and the bill went through like that.” John snapped his fingers.
“Well, I’m blessed!” ejaculated the old-time purchaser of valuable franchises.
“Now, Mr. Rogers, you understand financiering, and know all the capitalists. I understand the railway business. You raise the money, I’ll build the road, and we’ll be into New York with a whoop.”
For one brief instant Steele thought he had conquered.