."

"No, it isn't," answered the clerk, looking him gravely in the eye,
"it's five cents."

"Well, there's where you are wrong, m'son," Dyke retorted, genially.
"You look it up. You'll find the freight on hops from Bonneville
to 'Frisco is two cents a pound for car load lots. You told me that
yourself last fall."

"That was last fall," observed the clerk. There was a silence. Dyke shot
a glance of suspicion at the other. Then, reassured, he remarked:

"You look it up. You'll see I'm right."

S. Behrman came forward and shook hands politely with the ex-engineer.

"Anything I can do for you, Mr. Dyke?"

Dyke explained. When he had done speaking, the clerk turned to S.
Behrman and observed, respectfully:

"Our regular rate on hops is five cents."

"Yes," answered S. Behrman, pausing to reflect; "yes, Mr. Dyke, that's
right--five cents."

The clerk brought forward a folder of yellow paper and handed it
to Dyke. It was inscribed at the top "Tariff Schedule No. 8," and
underneath these words, in brackets, was a smaller inscription,
"SUPERSEDES NO. 7 OF AUG. 1"

"See for yourself," said S. Behrman. He indicated an item under the head
of "Miscellany."

"The following rates for carriage of hops in car load lots," read Dyke,
"take effect June 1, and will remain in force until superseded by a
later tariff. Those quoted beyond Stockton are subject to changes in
traffic arrangements with carriers by water from that point."

In the list that was printed below, Dyke saw that the rate for hops
between Bonneville or Guadalajara and San Francisco was five cents.

For a moment Dyke was confused. Then swiftly the matter became clear in
his mind. The Railroad had raised the freight on hops from two cents to
five.

All his calculations as to a profit on his little investment he had
based on a freight rate of two cents a pound. He was under contract to
deliver his crop. He could not draw back. The new rate ate up every cent
of his gains. He stood there ruined.

"Why, what do you mean?" he burst out. "You promised me a rate of two
cents and I went ahead with my business with that understanding. What do
you mean?"

S. Behrman and the clerk watched him from the other side of the counter.

"The rate is five cents," declared the clerk doggedly.

"Well, that ruins me," shouted Dyke. "Do you understand? I won't make
fifty cents. MAKE! Why, I will OWE,--I'll be--be--That ruins me, do you
understand?"

The other, raised a sh