“Yes, thank you, I do; and this has given me an idea.”
“That’s a good thing, and I can easily guess what your idea is. But before putting it into operation, I should like to mitigate a slight you have put on Slocum Junction. You made a sarcastic remark about cool drinks. Now, I beg to inform you that the nine o’clock local from the west slides off on this here platform every morning a great big square cold chunk of ice. That chunk of ice is growing less and less in a big wooden pail in the telegraph-office, but the water that surrounds it is chilly as the North Pole. If you have anything in your hip pocket or in that natty little valise which mitigates the rigour of cold water, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t indulge in a refreshing drink.”
“Station-master,” said John, laughing, “you ought to be superintendent of this road, instead of junction boss. You’re the wisest man I’ve met in two years.”
Saying this, he sprang the catch of the handbag and drew forth a bulky, wicker-covered, silver-topped flask.
“I propose we adjourn to the telegraph-office,” he added, “and investigate that wooden pail.”
The station-master led the way with an alacrity that he had not heretofore exhibited. The result of the conference was cheerful and comforting.
“Now,” said the station-master, drawing the back of his hand across his lips, “what you want is a special train to Bunkerville. A man from the city would get that by telegraphing to the superintendent at the terminus and paying twenty dollars. A man from the country who had some sense would go to Joe the engineer and persuade him he ought to wake up and return to Bunkerville at once.”
“How much would be required to influence Joe?”
“Oh, a couple of dollars would be wealth. A silver dollar in front of each eye will obscure the whole Western prairie if placed just right.”
“Very well, I’ll go out and place ‘em.”