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"And for that reason," said Shelgrim, "it leaves nothing more to be said. You might just as well have kept quiet. There's only one best way to say anything. And what has made the picture of 'The Toilers' great is that the artist said in it the BEST that could be said on the subject." "I had never looked at it in just that light," observed Presley. He was confused, all at sea, embarrassed.
"I see his finish," repeated Annixter. "Exit Dyke, and score another tally for S. Behrman, Shelgrim and Co." He moved away impatiently, loosening the tie-rope with which the buckskin was fastened. He swung himself up. "God for us all," he declared as he rode away, "and the devil take the hindmost. Good-bye, I'm going home. I still have one a little longer."
At every instant, through the open door of the ante-room, he caught a glimpse of clerks, office boys, book-keepers, and other employees hurrying towards the stairs and elevators, quitting business for the day. Shelgrim, it seemed, still remained at his desk, knowing no fatigue, requiring no leisure. "What time does Mr.
Shelgrim will see you, sir." Presley entered a large, well lighted, but singularly barren office. A well-worn carpet was on the floor, two steel engravings hung against the wall, an extra chair or two stood near a large, plain, littered table. That was absolutely all, unless he excepted the corner wash-stand, on which was set a pitcher of ice water, covered with a clean, stiff napkin.
Shelgrim usually go home?" inquired Presley of the young man who sat ruling forms at the table in the ante-room. "Anywhere between half-past six and seven," the other answered, adding, "Very often he comes back in the evening." And the man was seventy years old. Presley could not repress a murmur of astonishment. Not only mentally, then, was the President of the P. and S. W. a giant.
It suited his humour to take the girl into his confidence, following an instinct which warned him that this would bring about a certain closeness of their relations, a certain intimacy. "What do you think of this row, anyways, Miss Hilma, this railroad fuss in general? Think Shelgrim and his rushers are going to jump Quien Sabe are going to run us off the ranch?"
Shelgrim wrote a few memoranda on his calendar pad, and signed a couple of letters before turning his attention to Presley. At last, he looked up and fixed the young man with a direct, grave glance. He did not smile. It was some time before he spoke. At last, he said: "Well, sir." Presley advanced and took a chair nearer at hand.
The drama was over. The fight of Ranch and Railroad had been wrought out to its dreadful close. It was true, as Shelgrim had said, that forces rather than men had locked horns in that struggle, but for all that the men of the Ranch and not the men of the Railroad had suffered.
Presley, his senses never more alive, observed that, curiously enough, Shelgrim did not move his body.
Shelgrim, I think we ought to let Tentell out. We can't afford to keep him. He is really losing us too much money. Here's the order ready now, if you care to let it go." There was a pause. Presley all attention, listened breathlessly. The assistant manager laid before his President the typewritten order in question.
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