But this same man in Washington was a star stenographer at the Department of Justice, a dapper, one-time court reporter, the man who had handled the listening end of many a dictagraph when the ways were being greased between men in high places and the penitentiary at Atlanta.
"And you samplers," Gard was saying, "where can I meet you when another Saturday night comes?"
"Me at the Bayou Fouche mills," said Hansen.
"And the company sends me to Colorado for my lungs," said Tobin, the consumptive.
"And I keep time at the refinery," ventured "Fat" Cunningham.
"So everybody works," said the special agent. "Uncle Sam does not care if he lays good men off half the time, but the Continental people take care of the samplers."
"Good is the reason why they should," said the consumptive Tobin. "Don't we save them enough money in the way we take the samples?"
"How is that?" asked Gard.
"Look here, young fellow," said the gruff Hansen, "it seems to me that you are a good little asker of questions. Why are you so curious? Maybe you are a secret service man, eh?"