“I haven’t the list of the men that——”
“Then call up Blair. He’s in his private car on Number Three, which of course you know. You must get the list.”
“John Steele, I implore you to stop before it is too late. This is an outrage. It’s kidnapping—brigand’s work. You are breaking laws that will——”
“I know, I know. Good night, Mr. Manson.”
“Just one moment, John, I’ve something important to tell you. Mr. Rockervelt telegraphed to me——”
But the young man was proof against all blandishments, determined to go his own way, so he rang off before his friend could finish the sentence.
Steele rushed out to the platform, nodded to the waiting conductor, swung himself on the Pullman car, the conductor swung his lantern, and the “Thunderbolt” swung out into the night.
When the deft and silent negro had cleared away the breakfast dishes next morning and removed the tablecloth, Mr. Rockervelt leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. There was much to think of, and he was thinking much. The car rolled along with gratifying smoothness, and the great man paid no attention to the scenery, otherwise he might have been startled, for he knew well the environment of his own line. As for the negro, all roads were alike to him, and he attended solely and silently to his master’s comfort. He hovered about for a few moments, then said deferentially:
“Day’s a gennelman, sah, in de sleepah ahead’s been asking for you, sah, two or three times dis mawning, sah. He’d like to have some conversation with you, sah, if you’s disengaged.”
“Who is he?”