"Sure, if he's in town."
Bannon slipped his watch into his pocket. "Much obliged," he said. "Glad to have met you. Good morning;" and, turning, he walked rapidly away down the plank wagon road.
In Sloan's office he stated his errand as briefly as on the former occasion, adding only that he had already seen Dennis.
"I guess he told you all there is to tell," said the magnate. "We can't make the G.&M. give us cars. I've told Dennis to stir 'em up as hard as he could. I guess we'll have to wait."
"I can't wait."
"What else can you do? It's every bit as bad for us as it is for you, and you can rest assured that we'll do all we can." As if the cadence of his last sentence were not sufficiently recognizable as a formula of dismissal, he picked up a letter that lay on his desk and began reading it.
"This isn't an ordinary kick," said Bannon sharply. "It isn't just a case of us having to pay a big delay forfeit. There's a reason why our job's got to be done on time. I want to know the reason why the G.&M. won't give you cars. It ain't because they haven't got them."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because there's three big strings of empties within twenty miles of here this minute. I saw them when I came up this morning."
For a minute Sloan said nothing, only traced designs on the blotter with his pencil. Bannon saw that there was no longer any question of arousing his interest. At last he spoke:—