“Oh, yes, quite a yard there; but it’s badly run down.”
“What other sidings are there along the line?”
“Long ones at Yellow House and Dusty Bend.”
“How long?”
“Nearly two miles each.”
“How long is the line?”
“Forty-five miles.”
“Good Lord!” The exclamation was Tiffany’s. He was staring at Carhart with an expression of such mingled astonishment, incredulity, and expansive delight, that Peet’s curiosity broke its bounds. “For God’s sake, Tiffany,” he cried, “what is it? What’s he going to do?”
But Tiffany did not hear. He was gazing at Paul Carhart, saying incoherent things to him, and bringing down a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was somewhat frightened—never before, even in his own emphatic life, had his routine notions received such a wrench—but his eyes were shining. “Lord! Lord!” he was saying, “but there’ll be swearing in Sherman to-morrow.”
“The time has come when I ought to know what”—this from the purple Peet.