"It lapsed," says I, "eighteen months ago. Here's a copy, O. K.'d by a Minnesota notary public. See the date?"
"Allow me," says Mr. Runyon, reachin' for it.
Old Hickory gets up and rubbers over his shoulder. "By George!" says he. "It has lapsed, Runyon. Torchy, where's a map of——"
"Here you are," says I. "You'll see the branch line sketched in there. That would cut our haul about fifteen miles."
"And leave you with a lot of vacant ore docks on your hands, eh, Runyon?" puts in Old Hickory. "We could have those rails laid by the time the ice was out of the Soo. Well, well! Throws rather a new light on the situation, doesn't it?"
Marcus T. turns slow and fixes them keen eyes of his on Bixby the Busy.
"Hm-m-m!" says he. "It seems that we have overlooked a point, Bixby. Perhaps, though, you can offer——"
He can. Some shifty private sec, Bixby is.
"Your milk, sir," says he, grabbin' the tray and shovin' it in front of Runyon.
For a second or so the great Marcus T. eyes it indignant. Then his shoulders sag, the fire dies out of his eyes, and he takes the glass.