Success | Page 3

one being a
grizzled, hard-bitten man of waning middle age, the other a vicious and
scrawny boy of eighteen or so. The boy spoke first.
"You the main guy here?"
The agent nodded.
"Got a sore throat?" demanded the boy surlily. He started toward the
door. The agent made no move, but his eyes were attentive.
"That'll be near enough," he said quietly.
"Oh, we ain't on that lay," put in the grizzled man. He was quite hoarse.
"You needn't to be scared of us."
"I'm not," agreed the agent. And, indeed, the fact was self-evident.
"What about the pueblo yonder?" asked the man with a jerk of his head
toward the town.
"The hoosegow is old and the sheriff is new."

"I got ya," said the man, nodding. "We better be on our way."
"I would think so."
"You're a hell of a guy, you are," whined the boy. "'On yer way' from
you an' not so much as 'Are you hungry?' What about a little
hand-out?"
"Nothing doing."
"Tightwad! How'd you like--"
"If you're hungry, feel in your coat-pocket."
"I guess you're a wise one," put in the man, grinning appreciatively.
"We got grub enough. Panhandlin's a habit with the kid; don't come
natural to him to pass a likely prospect without makin' a touch."
He leaned against the platform, raising one foot slightly from the
ground in the manner of a limping animal. The agent disappeared into
the station, locking the door after him. The boy gave expression to a
violent obscenity directed upon the vanished man. When that individual
emerged again, he handed the grizzled man a box of ointment and
tossed a packet of tobacco to the evil-faced boy. Both were quick with
their thanks. That which they had most needed and desired had been, as
it were, spontaneously provided. But the elder of the wayfarers was
puzzled, and looked from the salve-box to its giver.
"How'd you know my feet was blistered?"
"Been padding in the rain, haven't you?"
"Have you been on the hoof, too?" asked the hobo quickly.
The other smiled.
"Say!" exclaimed the boy. "I bet he's Banneker. Are you?" he
demanded.

"That's my name."
"I heard of you three years ago when you was down on the Long Line
Sandy," said the man. He paused and considered. "What's your lay, Mr.
Banneker?" he asked, curiously but respectfully.
"As you see it. Railroading."
"A gay-cat," put in the boy with a touch of scorn.
"You hold your fresh lip," his elder rebuked him. "This gent has treated
us like a gent. But why? What's the idea? That's what I don't get."
"Oh, some day I might want to run for Governor on the hobo ticket,"
returned the unsmiling agent.
"You get our votes. Well, so long and much obliged."
The two resumed their journey. Banneker returned to his book. A
freight, "running extra," interrupted him, but not for long. The wire had
been practicing a seemly restraint for uneventful weeks, so the agent
felt that he could settle down to a sure hour's bookishness yet, even
though the west-bound Transcontinental Special should be on time,
which was improbable, as "bad track" had been reported from eastward,
owing to the rains. Rather to his surprise, he had hardly got well
reimmersed in the enchantments of the mercantile fairyland when the
"Open Office" wire warned him to be attentive, and presently from the
east came tidings of Number Three running almost true to schedule, as
befitted the pride of the line, the finest train that crossed the continent.
Past the gaunt station she roared, only seven minutes late, giving the
imaginative young official a glimpse and flash of the uttermost luxury
of travel: rich woods, gleaming metal, elegance of finish, and on the
rear of the observation-car a group so lily-clad that Sears-Roebuck at its
most glorious was not like unto them. Would such a train, the
implanted youth wondered, ever bear him away to unknown,
undreamed enchantments?

Would he even wish to go if he might? Life was full of many things to
do and learn at Manzanita. Mahomet need not go to the mountain when,
with but a mustard seed of faith in the proven potency of mail-order
miracles he could move mountains to come to him. Leaning to his
telegraph instrument, he wired to the agent at Stanwood, twenty-six
miles down-line, his formal announcement.
"O. S.--G. I. No. 3 by at 10.46."
"O. K.--D. S.," came the response.
Banneker returned to the sunlight. In seven minutes or perhaps less, as
the Transcontinental would be straining to make up lost time, the train
would enter Rock Cut three miles and more west, and he would
recapture the powerful throbbing of the locomotive as she emerged on
the farther side, having conquered the worst of