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“Jim, what are the relations of the Towando Valley to the L. and C.?” asked Allison, offering Sargent a cigar.

“Largely paternal,” and the president of the Towando Valley grinned. “We feed it when it’s good, and spank it when it cries.”

“Hold control of the stock?”

“No, only its transportation,” returned Sargent complacently.

“Stock is a good deal scattered, I suppose.”

“Small holdings entirely, and none of the holders proud,” replied Sargent. “It starts no place and comes right back, and the share-holders won’t pay postage to send in their annual proxies.”

“Then the stock doesn’t seem to be worth buying,” observed Allison, with vast apparent indifference.

“Only to piece out a collection,” chuckled Sargent. “I didn’t know you were interested in railroads.”

“I wasn’t a week ago,” and Allison looked out across the starry sky to the tree-scalloped hills. “With the completion of the consolidation of New York’s transportation system, and the building of a big central station, I thought I was through. It seemed a big achievement to gather all these lines to a common centre, like holding them in my hand; to converge four millions of people at one point, to handle them without confusion, and to re-distribute them along the same lines, looked like a life’s work; but now I’m beginning to become ambitious.”