“Let's not beat about the bush, Poundstone,” he said with the air of a father patiently striving to induce his child to recant a lie, tell the truth, and save himself from the parental wrath. “You've been doing business with Ogilvy; I know it for a fact, and you might as well admit it.”
Poundstone looked up, red and embarrassed. “If I had known--” he began.
“Certainly, certainly! I realize you acted in perfect good faith. You're like the majority of people in Sequoia. You're all so crazy for rail-connection with the outside world that you jump at the first plan that seems to promise you one. Now, I'm as eager as the others, but if we are going to have a railroad, I, for one, desire the right kind of railroad; and the N.C.O. isn't the right kind--that is, not for the interests I represent. Have you promised Ogilvy a franchise?”
There was no dodging that question. A denial, under the present circumstances, would be tantamount to an admission; Poundstone could not guess just how much the Colonel really knew, and it would not do to lie to him, since eventually the lie must be discovered. Caught between the horns of a dilemma, Poundstone only knew that Ogilvy could never be to him such a powerful enemy as Colonel Seth Pennington; so, after the fashion of his kind, he chose the lesser of two evils. He resolved to “come clean.”
“The city council has already granted the N.C.O. a temporary franchise,” he confessed.
Pennington sprang furiously to his feet. “Dammit.” he snarled, “why did you do that without consulting me?”
“Didn't know you were remotely interested.” Now that the ice was broken, Poundstone felt relieved and was prepared to defend his act vigorously. “And we did not commit ourselves irrevocably,” he continued. “The temporary franchise will expire in twenty-eight days--and in that short time the N.C.O. cannot even get started.”
“Have you any understanding as to an extension of that temporary franchise, in case the N.C.O. desires it?”
“Well, yes--not in writing, however. I gave Ogilvy to understand that if he was not ready in thirty days, an extension could readily be arranged.”
“I am not such a fool, sir,” Poundstone declared with asperity. “I had a notion--I might as well admit it--that you would have serious objection to having your tracks cut by a jump-crossing at B and Water streets.” And for no reason in life except to justify himself and inculcate in Pennington an impression that the latter was dealing with a crafty and far-seeing mayor, Poundstone smiled boldly and knowingly. “I repeat,” he said, “that I did not put it in writing.” He leaned back nonchalantly and blew smoke at the ceiling.