He's about the best trained plute I ever saw in captivity.
"And I think the doctor should take your temperature now," adds Bixby. "I will call him."
As he slips off toward the back end of the car Mr. Runyon lets out a sigh.
"It's no use, Ellins," says he. "One can't pamper a ruined digestion and still enjoy these friendly little business bouts. One simply can't. Name your own terms for continuing that terminal lease."
Old Hickory does prompt, for we don't want to buy rails at the price they're bringin' now.
"And by the way, Runyon," says he, "may I ask what you pay your young man? I'm just curious."
"Bixby?" says Runyon. "Oh, twenty-five hundred."
"Huh!" says Mr. Ellins. "My secretary forgets my milk now and then, but he remembers such trifles as lapsed charters. He is drawing three thousand."
I hope Marcus T. didn't hear the gasp I lets out—I tried to smother it. And the first thing I does when we gets back into the limousine is to grin at the boss.
"Whaddye mean, three thousand?" says I.