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She was very sweet and gentle with him and young Mitchell, imperfect as was his vision, saw something in her he had never seen before. A week went by, during which it seemed that all the railroads except the Monon had suddenly gone out of business. It was as if a strike had been declared. Another week passed and Mitchell's sales were scarcely noticeable, so Mr.
Dashing through the depot, he hurled himself into a taxi. "Monon Station!" he shouted, "and drive like the devil." Just what kind of chauffeur the devil is has never been demonstrated, but if that taxi-driver, urged on by Quin, was his counterpart, it is safe to infer that there are no traffic laws in Hades.
You've been blowing in our money on your friends and you've let your customers go. If you can't hold the railroad business we'll get some fellow who can. Cut out your sewing-circle wine suppers and your box parties to the North Shore débutantes and get busy. You've got a week to make good. One week." There wasn't the slightest chance, and Mitchell told Miss Monon so when Thursday came around.
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