“My office in St. Louis always knows where I’m at,” says he. “My stenographer can reach me any time within ten to twelve hours.”
“I don’t think it’s right to have this country’s whole future dependin’ on a St. Louis stenographer,” I says.
“That’s nonsense!” says he. “I ain’t makin’ no claim that I could save or not save this country. But if I and Wilson was acquainted I might tell him some facts that’d help him out in his foreign policy.”
“Well, then,” I says, “it’s up to you to get acquainted. I’d introduce you myself only I don’t know your name.”
“My name’s Gould,” says he; “but you’re not acquainted with Wilson.”
“I could be, easy,” says I. “I could get on a train he was goin’ somewheres on and then go and set beside him and begin to talk. Lots o’ people make friends that way.”
It was gettin’ along to’rd suppertime, so I excused myself and went back to the apartment. The Missus had woke up and wasn’t feelin’ good.
“What’s the matter?” I ast her.
“This old train,” she says. “I’ll die if it don’t stop goin’ round them curves.”
“As long as the track curves, the best thing the train can do is curve with it,” I says. “You may die if it keeps curvin’, but you’d die a whole lot sooner if it left the rails and went straight ahead.”
“What you been doin’?” she ast me.
“Just talkin’ to one o’ the Goulds,” I says.
“Gould!” she says. “What Gould?”