“I will have to ‘phone Chicago, I will simply have to ‘phone Chicago. We socialists don’t do anything like this offhand, Mr. McPherson,” he had explained as they walked along the street.
When the socialist came out of the booth he stood before Sam shaking his head. His whole attitude had changed, and he looked like a man caught doing a foolish or absurd thing.
“Nothing doing, nothing doing, Mr. McPherson,” he said, starting for the hotel door.
At the door he stopped and shook his finger at Sam.
“It won’t work,” he said, emphatically. “Chicago is too wise.”
Sam turned and went back to his room. His name had killed his only chance to beat Crofts, Jake, Bill and Ed. In his room he sat looking out of the window into the street.
“Where shall I take hold now?” he asked himself.
Turning out the lights he sat listening to the roar of the waterfall and thinking of the events of the last week.
“I have had a time,” he thought. “I have tried something and even though it did not work it has been the best fun I have had for years.”
The hours slipped away and night came on. He could hear men shouting and laughing in the street, and going downstairs he stood in a hallway at the edge of the crowd that gathered about the socialist. The orator shouted and waved his hand. He seemed as proud as a young recruit who has just passed through his first baptism of fire.