Poundstones. With the nicest tact in the world, Shirley adroitly
changed the subject to some tailored shirt-waists she had observed in
the window of a local dry-goods emporium that day, and Mrs.
Poundstone subsided.

About nine o'clock, Shirley, in response to a meaning glance from her
relative, tactfully convoyed Mrs. Poundstone upstairs, leaving her
uncle alone with his prey. Instantly Pennington got down to business.

"Well," he queried, apropos of nothing, "what do you hear with
reference to the Northern-California-Gregon Railroad?"

"Oh, the usual amount of wind, Colonel. Nobody knows what to make of
that outfit."

Pennington studied the end of his cigar a moment. "Well, I don't know
what to think of that project either," he admitted presently, "But
while it looks like a fake, I have a suspicion that where there's so
much smoke, one is likely to discover a little fire. I've been
waiting to see whether or not they will apply for a franchise to
enter the city, but they seem to be taking their time about it."

"They certainly are a deliberate crowd," the Mayor murmured.

"Have they made any move to get a franchise?" Pennington asked
bluntly. "If they have, I suppose you would be the first man to hear
about it. I don't mean to be impertinent," he added with a gracious
smile, "but the fact is I noticed that windbag Ogilvy entering your
office in the city hall the other afternoon, and I couldn't help
wondering whether his visit was social or official."