George McCloud
“McCloud.”
“First name?” continued Bucks mechanically.
“George.”
Bucks looked at his companion in surprise. Then he spoke, and a feeling of self-abasement was reflected in his words. “George McCloud,” he echoed. “Did you say George? Why, I must know that man. I turned him down once for a job. He looked so peaceable I thought he was too soft for us.” The president laid down his cigar with a gesture of disgust. “And yet there really are people along this line that think I’m clever. I haven’t judgment enough to operate a trolley car. It’s a shame to take the money they give me for running this system, Gordon. Hanged if I didn’t think that fellow was too soft.” He called the flagman over. “Tell Whitmyer we will stay at Cold Springs to-night.”
“I thought you were going through to Medicine Bend,” suggested Smith as the trainman disappeared.
“McCloud,” repeated Bucks, taking up his cigar and throwing back his head in a cloud of smoke.
“Yes,” assented his companion; “but I am going through to Medicine Bend, Mr. Bucks.”
“Do.”
“How am I to do it?”
39
