lic would see it. They didn't want the expense of a change."
Mr. Quimby looked out at the sunlit stretch of snow.
"Eight years," he repeated, "I fought and pleaded. No, I begged that—was the word—I begged. You'd be surprised to know the names of some of the men who kept me waiting in their private offices, and sneered at me over their polished desks. They turned me down—every one. Some of them played me—as though I'd been a fish. They referred me to other ends of the same big game, laughing in their sleeves, I guess, at the knowledge of how hopeless it was. Oh, they made a fine fool of me."
"You might have put down some of your joints at your own expense," suggested the professor.
"Didn't I try?" cried Quimby. "Do you think they'd let me? No, the public might see them and demand them everywhere. Once, I thought I had convinced somebody. It was down in Reuton—the Suburban Railway." There was a rustle as Mr. Bland let his paper fall to the floor.
