Before he had gone far the deposed station agent overtook him. He was smoking a cigarette with short, nervous puffs, and he fell in step with the Senator, evidently relieved at having a chance to talk.
“What did you think of that?” he asked. “Pretty sudden, wasn't it?”
The Senator grunted a savage assent, and the agent went on:—
“Well, all I say is, these fellows needn't think they've got any cinch until Jim Weeks has had his innings. He's going to have it, too. This kind of a scrap is right in his line.”
The Senator seemed to be listening, and the agent was encouraged to try his hand at prophesying what would happen when Jim Weeks should come down the line. When they reached the hotel both men paused, and the Senator said affably,—
“Come in and have something.”
“All right, if you mean ginger ale,” laughed the agent. “It's a temperance house, with a gold cure on the side.”
The disgust of Senator Sporty Jones was expressed with such blasphemous force that the agent was moved to add,—
“You can get anything you want down in the next block.”
“All right,” grunted the Senator. “Wait a minute, though; I want to telephone.”