"I have fired him. He talks too much. I want a man to manage traffic, not
to superintend a Sunday-school."
"But Mr. Shields has been there for years!"
"That's the trouble. I want a younger man--one who is abreast of the
times, familiar with modern methods."
Quin's heart leaped within him. Could Mr. Bangs be intimating that he,
Quinby Graham, with one year and four months' experience, might step over
the heads of all of those older and more experienced aspirants into the
empty shoes of the former traffic manager?
The South Seas seemed to flow just around the corner.
"I have been considering the matter," continued Mr. Bangs, catching a
white moth between his thumb and forefinger and taking apparent pleasure
in its annihilation, "and I've decided not to get a new man in for the
summer, but to let you take the work for the present and see what you can
do with it."
Quin's joy was so swift and sudden that even the formidable banks of Mr.
Bangs's presence could not keep it from overflowing.
"I can handle it as easy as falling off a log!" he cried excitedly. "I
know every State in the Union and then some. Of course, I hate to see old
Shields go, but he _is_ a slow-coach.
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