Milburn hasn't got much of a political conscience, but he's got a sense of what's silly.

Well, now, I expect you want all the time there is." Mr Williams removed himself from the edge of the table, which was strewn with maps and bluebooks, printed official, and typewritten demi-official papers.
"Give 'em a notion of those Assiniboian wheat acres, my boy, and the ranch country we've got; tell 'em about the future of quick passage and cold storage.

Get 'em a little ashamed to have made so many fortunes for Yankee beef combines; persuade 'em the cheapest market has a funny way of getting the dearest price in the end.

Give it 'em, Lorne, hot and cold and fricasseed.

The Express will back you up." He slapped his young friend's shoulder, who seemed occupied with matters that prevented his at once feeling the value of this assurance.
"Bye-bye," said Mr Williams.