"I'll draw up the
temporary franchise to-night, and we'll put it through to-morrow at,
say, ten o'clock without saying a word to Mr. Ogilvy about it. Then
when the city clerk has signed and attested it and put the seal of
the city on it, I'll just casually take it over to Mr. Ogilvy. Of
course he'll be surprised and ask me how I came to get it, and--"
"And you LOOK surprised," his father cautioned. "--sort of as if you
failed to comprehend what he's driving at. Make him repeat. Then you
say: 'Oh, that! Why, that's nothing, Mr. Ogilvy. I found the telegram
in those papers you left with me, read it, and concluded you'd left
it there to give me the dope so I could go ahead and get the
franchise for you. Up here, whenever anybody wants a franchise from
the city, they always hire an attorney to get it for them, so I
didn't think anything about this but just naturally went and got it
for you. If it ain't right, why, say so and I'll have it made
right.'" Old Poundstone nudged his son in the short ribs and winked
drolly. "Let him get the idea you're a fly bird and on to your job."
"Leave it to yours truly," said Henry.
His father carefully made a copy of the telegram.
"H'm!" he grunted. "Wants to cross Water Street at B and build out
Front Street. Well, I dare say nobody will kick over the traces at
that.
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