“Well, what?”
“Look here, Carhart, I don’t know what you’ve got in mind, but I can’t let you have any of these cars.”
“You can’t?”
“Not possibly. Half of ’em are foreign as it is. I’m so short now I don’t know what I’m going to do. Honest, I don’t.”
Carhart turned this answer over in his mind. After a moment he looked up, first at Peet, then at Tiffany, as if he had something to say; but whatever it may have been, he turned away without saying it.
“What is it, old man?” cried Tiffany, at last. “What can we do for you, anyway?”
Still Carhart did not speak. His eyes again sought the long lines of cars. Finally, resting one foot on a projecting cross-tie, he turned to the superintendent. “Suppose you do this, Peet,” he said, speaking slowly; “suppose you tell your yard-master that I am to be absolute boss here until midnight. Then you go home and leave me here. Tiffany could stay and help me out—this isn’t his department.”
This brought Peet close to the outer limit of bewilderment. “What in—” he began; but Carhart, observing the effect of his request, interrupted.
“I don’t believe Mr. Peet understands the situation very well, Tiffany. Tell him where we stand—where Mr. De Reamer stands.” And with this he walked off a little way.