"Do you feel cold?" he asked. "I'll shut the door."
He rose quickly and started toward it, but Bannon was there before him. He hesitated, his hand on the knob.
"Why don't you shut it?" snapped the superintendent.
"I think I'll—I think I'll send a telegram."
"Here's a blank, in here. Come in." But Bannon had slipped out and was standing beside the operator's table. From the doorway the superintendent saw him biting his pencil and frowning over a bit of paper. The general manager's message was still coming in.
We-don't-help-put-up-any-grain-elevator-in-Chicago-these-days.
As the last click sounded, Bannon handed his message to the operator. "Send it collect," he said. With that he strode away, over the hand rail, this time, and down the stairs. The operator carried the message to the superintendent.
"It seems to be for you," he said.
The superintendent read—
Div. Supt. G.&M., Blake City. Tell manager it takes better man than him to
tie us up.
MACBRIDE & COMPANY.