Like an old war-horse at the sound of the bugle, Rogers stiffened his muscles for the fight. The light of battle flamed in his eye as the memory of the conquest of millions returned to him. But presently he leaned back in his chair with a sigh, and the light flickered out.
“Ah, John!” he whispered plaintively, “I wish I had met you thirty years ago; but alas! you weren’t born then. What a team we would have made! But I’m too old and, besides, your scheme wouldn’t work. I might get up the money, and I might not. The very name of the Burdock is a hoodoo. But even if the money were subscribed and the link built, we would merely be confronted by a railroad war. The Rockervelts would cut rates, and the longest purse is bound to win, which means we should go to the wall.”
Steele sat down with his face in his hands, thoroughly discouraged for the first time in his life. He felt a boyish desire to cry, and a mannish desire to curse, but did neither. The old gentleman rambled on amiably: “You are a ten-thousand dollar man, John, but your line of progress is on some road with a future. Follow my advice and take your charter to that old thief Rocker-velt himself. There lies your market.”
“How can I do that,” growled John from between his fingers, “when I am an employee of the Burdock?”
“Technically so am I; therefore, as your chief, I advise you to see Rockervelt.”
“All right!” cried Steele, springing to his feet as if his minute of deep despondency had been time thrown away that could not be spared. He shook hands cordially with the president, and returned his genial smile.
CHAPTER III—-WAYLAYING A MAGNATE
ON the steps of the club he was surprised to meet Philip Manson, who, he knew, rarely honoured that institution with his presence.