He glanced mechanically at his notes. Above that routine work
he had so many things to think about. He'd fixed Tully for good. Tully
wouldn't try that "by the way" and "not impossible" stuff with _him_ any
more. And that little old man--perfumery not used since the Chicago
fire, or had he said the Mexican War? No matter. And talked to Breede
about heifers. But there was the big-faced brute, speaking pretty
seriously. Let him go free _to-night_! State's prison offence, maybe!
Might be in jail this time to-morrow. Would the flapper telephone to him
there? Send him unpoisoned canned food? Would he be disgraced?
Breede--directors--glamour wearing off--slinking gazelles with yellow
whiskers--rotten perfumery. So rushed the turbulent flood of his mind.
But the letter was finished at last.
Two days later a certain traffic manager of lines west of Chicago read a
paragraph in this letter many times:
"The cramped conditions of this terminal have been of course appreciably
relieved by the completion of the westside cut-off. Nevertheless our
traffic has not yet attained its maximum, and new problems of congestion
will arise next year. I am engaged to that perfectly flapper daughter of
yours, and we are going to marry each other when she gets perfectly good
and ready. Better not fuss any. Let Julia do the fussing. To meet this
emergency I dare say it will come to four-tracking the old main line
over the entire division.
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