“Well, what’s up with you now, you honest old Methodist.
I read something, this morning, about that address of yours, in Stickney, I believe.”
“Oh, that,” retorted Johnson, not a little pleased that Stane should have heard of it, and rather nervously buttoning his crinkled black alpaca office coat.
“There’s some dispute between the ministers of our different churches of that district, and I went down to arbitrate between them.
They called for a little address afterward, and I took the occasion to lecture them on their conduct.”
He drew himself up, quite dictatorially and proudly, as he recalled it.
Stane noted the mood.
“The trouble with you, Johnson,” he went on lightly, “is that you should either be in Parliament, or on the bench.
But if you’ll take my advice, you’ll make it Parliament first and the bench afterward.
We need you too much around here to let you go on the bench yet.”
He smiled cordially and really quite affectionately on Johnson, who in turn, flattered and warmed by the remark, beamed appreciatively.
“Well, as you know, I’ve been thinking of Parliament for a long time.
There are so many things that come up in connection with our work here that might be helped by my presence there.
Rider and Bullock are constantly talking of it.
In fact, Rider insists on my standing in the by-election in his district in September.
He seems to think I can win if I make a few addresses.”
“And why not?
Who else better?
And Rider has great influence there, as you know.
I advise you to do it.
And if I can be of any service to you, I or any of my friends, all you need to do is to call on me.
I’ll be delighted.”
“That’s certainly kind of you and I appreciate it,” replied Johnson.
“Besides,” and here his tone grew at once more confidential, “there’s something that came up in my office this morning which may have some bearing on this.”
He paused, took out his handkerchief and cleared his nose, while Stane contemplated him interestedly.
“Well, what’s the secret?”
“I’ve just had two men in my office: Willard Jarkins, an American, and Willem Kloorfain, a Dutchman.
They are agents and brokers, Kloorfain in London and Jarkins in New York.
They’ve been telling me something interesting.
You know that ?30,000 option we gave to Greaves and Henshaw?”
Stane, half-curious and slightly amused by Johnson’s manner, withdrew his legs from his desk, put down the report he was examining, and looking hard at Johnson said:
“That damn Traffic Electrical!
What about it?”
“It appears,” went on Johnson, “that they went to New York quite recently to interview this multimillionaire Cowperwood.
It also appears that they only offered him a half-interest in that ?30,000 option for his services in raising the money with which to build the road.”
Johnson chortled dryly.
“And later, of course, he was to pay them a ?100,000 for their services as engineers.”
Both men were unable to repress an additional chuckle at this.
“Of course,” continued Johnson, “he refused it.
At the same time, it appears that what he really wants is to secure complete control; that or nothing.
It seems, or so these people say, he expressed an interest in some such combination of lines as you and I have been thinking of here for the past ten years.
As you know, he’s being driven out of Chicago.”
“Yes, I know,” said Stane.
“Well, in addition to that, I’ve just been reading an account of him which these fellows left with me.
Here it is,” and he extracted from his pocket a full page from the New York Sun, the center of which carried a large and quite accurate pen-and-ink drawing of Cowperwood.
Stane unfolded the page and studied the picture, after which he looked up at Johnson.
“Not a bad-looking fellow, what? Lots of go!”
He then studied a printed chart of some of Cowperwood’s holdings.
“Two hundred and fifty miles . . . and all in twenty years.”
Then he concentrated on a paragraph relating to Cowperwood’s New York house, after which he added: