Dear Mr. Peet: I beg to enclose herewith a list of the cars which were assigned to me at the beginning of the construction work. I am sure you will agree with me that I can spare none of these cars, least of all to supply a rival line. And in consideration of your future hearty cooperation with me in advancing this construction work, I will gladly take pains to see that my present knowledge of the use that has been made of these cars shall not interfere in any way with your continued enjoyment of your position with the Sherman and Western.
Yours very truly,
P. Carhart.
He folded the letter, then opened it and read it over. “Yes,” he told himself, “it’s better to write it. Seeing the thing before him in black and white may have a stimulating effect.” He found in his pocket the worn and thumbed list of cars, enclosed it in his letter, addressed an envelope, and looked around. At once he was beset by the agents and the applicants for work, but he shoved through to the piazza, and called a boy.
“Here, son,” he said, “do you know Mr. Peet, of the railroad?”
The boy nodded.
“Take this letter to him. If he isn’t in his office, go to his house, but don’t come back until you have found him.”
“Will there be any answer?”
“No—no answer. Don’t give the letter to anybody but Mr. Peet himself. When you have done that, come to me and get a quarter.”
The boy started off, and Carhart reëntered the building, slipped past the office door, and walked up two flights of stairs to his room.
“And now,” thought he, “I guess a bath will feel about as good as anything.”