The warm yellow light was beginning to fade from the room. It was growing late.
“I guess we'd better go up-town to the hotel and have our supper. Where is your trunk? At the station?”
“I've got nothing but a bundle. It's at the door.”
Dan locked his desk, and they left the office.
“Is it all yours?” Roger Oakley asked, pausing as they crossed the yards, to glance up and down the curving tracks.
“It's part of the property I manage. It belongs to General Cornish, who holds most of the stock.”
“And the train I came on, Dannie, who owned that?”
“At Buckhorn Junction, where you changed cars for the last time, you caught our local express. It runs through to a place called Harrison—the terminus of the line. This is only a branch road, you know.”
But the explanation was lost on his father. His son's relation to the road was a magnificent fact which he pondered with simple pleasure.
After their supper at the hotel they went up-stairs. Roger Oakley had been given a room next his son's. It was the same room General Cornish had occupied when he was in Antioch.