The man that runs is a friend
of mine, and he'll use you white. Just tell him I sent you. Stokes is
his name--Len Stokes."
"Thanks, neighbor," said Brevoort, and Pete thought that Brevoort's
tone was the least bit sarcastic.
"That's all right," said the genial conductor. "I always like to see
the boys have a good time."
Pete himself was a trifle suspicious of the conductor's solicitude as
to their welfare, naturally unaware that that worthy official got a
rake-off on all customers mentioning his name at the hotel and
clothing-store.
He gathered up his reports and tickets, snapped a rubber band round
them, and dropped them in his capacious pocket. "We're eight minutes
late," he remarked, glancing at his watch. "Now what--" He rose and
made for the end door as the train slowed up and stopped at an isolated
siding. Pete glanced out and saw a little red box of a building, four
or five empty freight cars, and a curve of rail that swung off south
from the main line. No passengers got on or off the train, but Pete
noticed that the conductor was talking earnestly with a hollow-cheeked,
blue-overalled man who had just handed him a slip of paper.
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