All of them stripped and eager and ready--like a lot
of jockeys holding in the big race-horses, and each of them with his
eyes on the starter. And I liked the way they all talk about Sampson,
and the way the ships move over the stations like parts of one
machine, just as he had told them to do.
"Scudder introduced me to him, and he listened while we did the
talking, but it was easy to see who was the man in the Conning Tower.
Keating--my boy!" Channing cried, sitting upright in his enthusiasm,
"he's put a combination-lock on that harbor that can't be picked--and
it'll work whether Sampson's asleep in his berth, or fifteen miles
away, or killed on the bridge. He doesn't have to worry, he knows his
trap will work--he ought to, he set it."
Keating shrugged his shoulders, tolerantly.
"Oh, I see that side of it," he assented. "I see all there is in it
for YOU, the sort of stuff you write, Sunday-special stuff, but
there's no NEWS in it. I'm not paid to write mail-letters, and I'm
not down here to interview palm-trees either."
"Why, you old fraud!" laughed Channing. "You know you're having the
time of your life here. You're the pet of Kingston society--you know
you are.
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