“Thank you,” said the girl again, but there was a thrill in her voice this time.
Into the devious ways of the legal profession and of railroad operation when they run parallel it is not meet for the layman to inquire too closely. Suffice it to say here that Judge Selden Dana took a brief trip to the office of a certain railway system, and thence followed up a certain consignment of freight which subsequently became the innocent victim of cross-orders to the extent of getting itself mysteriously and obscurely side-tracked while certain interests in Fenchester afflicted the heavens above, the earth beneath, the Postal Telegraph, the Western Union, and all the long-distance wires with frantic inquiries. Further it may be stated that this sort of law-and-railroad practice is such as would have been severely condemned by Mr. Jeremy Robson, editor of The Guardian, had he known of it. He knew nothing. There were many and important matters happening at this time whereof he knew nothing.
This matter having been arranged, Judge Dana made an appointment by telephone, and called to see Jeremy.
“Got another dicker to suggest, Judge?” the editor greeted him, with indulgent raillery.
“No,” returned the caller slowly; “no dicker. This is serious business, young man. How long are you going to be able to hold out?”
“Don’t you worry about us,” said Jeremy, who had n’t the smallest intention of betraying the paper’s status to the wily lawyer. “There’s a lot of fight left in the old hulk yet.”
“What about this strike?”
“So you’ve heard about that?”
“I’ve seen Milliken.”
“Milliken is fired.”