fore, she could count on me when she needed help in this emergency.
I couldn't decide how "Iron Age" had marked me down. He went forward through a couple of cars but evidently lost George in some washroom or compartment and he decided to give up George for the present—there was no danger in that; we were skimming along about sixty-five miles the hour. Anyway, "Iron Age" paid me the compliment of returning to me in the Pullman smoking room and he plumped himself down, emphatically, and went about the job of clearing up any doubts of me.
"Now who are you?" he opened, with charming directness, a heavy hint of federal prison at Leavenworth lurking in his tone.
I gave him my business card without making any fuss and he looked me over and reached, with a now-I've-got-you gesture, for a copy of the Chicago Tribune which somebody had left on the leather seat.
He turned to the produce market page and questioned me temptingly:
"What do you do in the firm, Mr. Fanneal?"
"Oh, I buy a little," I admitted. "Overlook sales some."
