“Suppose you flagged the Empire State Express, or the Western Cyclone?”
“Suppose I did. I know Otis Harvey—or used to. I’d send him a wire, and he’d understand it was a ground-hog case with me. That’s exactly what I told this British fossil company here.”
“Have you been answering their letters without legal advice, then?”
“Of course I have.”
“Oh, my Sainted Country! Go ahead, Wilton.”
“I wrote ’em that I’d be very happy to see their president and explain to him in three words all about it; but that wouldn’t do. ’Seems their president must be a god. He was too busy, and—well, you can read for yourself—they wanted explanations. The stationmaster at Amberley Royal—and he grovels before me, as a rule—wanted an explanation, and quick, too. The head sachem at St. Botolph’s wanted three or four, and the Lord High Mukkamuk that oils the locomotives wanted one every fine day. I told ’em—I’ve told ’em about fifty times—I stopped their holy and sacred train because I wanted to board her. Did they think I wanted to feel her pulse?”
“You didn’t say that?”
“‘Feel her pulse’? Of course not.”
“No. ‘Board her.’”
“What else could I say?”