← catalogue

The Short Line War

by Samuel Merwin · English · Gutenberg #8385 · 362,223 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Short Line War
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Short Line War

Author: Samuel Merwin
        Henry Kitchell Webster


        
Release date: June 1, 2005 [eBook #8385]
                Most recently updated: March 13, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8385

Credits: Text file produced by Eric Eldred, Beth Trapaga and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team
        
        HTML file produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHORT LINE WAR ***




Produced by Eric Eldred, Beth Trapaga and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team








THE SHORT LINE WAR


By Samuel Merwin



CHAPTER

   I.     JIM WEEKS
   II.    MR. MCNALLY GOES TO TILLMAN CITY
   III.   POLITICS AND OTHER THINGS
   IV.    JIM WEEKS CLOSES IN
   V.     TUESDAY EVENING
   VI.    JUDGE BLACK
   VII.   BETWEEN THE LINES
   VIII.  JUDGE GREY
   IX.    THE MATTER OF POSSESSION
   X.     SOMEBODY LOSES THE BOOKS
   XI.    A  POLITICIAN
   XII.   KATHERINE
   XIII.  TRAIN NO. 14
   XIV.   A CAPTURE AT BRUSHINGHAM
   XV.    DEUS EX MACHINA
   XVI.   MCNALLY'S EXPEDIENT
   XVII.  IN THE DARK
   XVIII. THE COMING OF DAWN
   XIX.   KATHERINE DECIDES
   XX.    HARVEY
   XXI.   THE TILLMAN CITY STOCK
   XXII.  THE WINNING OF THE ROAD
   XXIII. THE SURRENDER




CHAPTER I


JIM WEEKS


James Weeks came of a fighting stock.

His great-grandfather, Ashbel Weeks, was born in Connecticut in 1748; he
migrated to New York in '70, and settled among the Oneida Indians on the
Upper Mohawk. It was the kind of life he was built for; he sniffed at
danger like a young horse catching a breath off the meadows. He did not
take the war fever until St. Leger came up the valley, when he fought
beside Herkimer in the ambush on Oriskany Creek. He joined the army of
the North, and remained with it through the long three years that
ended at Yorktown; then he married, and returned to his home among the
half-civilized Oneidas.

His oldest son, Jonathan, was born in '90. He grew like his father
in physique and temperament, and his migrating disposition led him
to Kentucky. The commercial instinct, which had never appeared in his
father, was strong in him, so that he turned naturally to trading. He
began in a small way, but he succeeded at it, and amassed what was then
considered a large fortune.

In 1823 he moved to Louisville, and interested himself in promoting the
steamboat traffic on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. As the business
developed, Jonathan Weeks's fortune grew with it. His only son, who
was born in 1815, was sent to Harvard; he spent a very merry four years
there, and a good deal of money. He fell in love in the meantime, and
married immediately after his graduation. Not many months after his
marriage he was killed by the accidental discharge of a rifle, and,
shortly after this, his widow died in giving birth to a son.

The care of the child devolved entirely upon Jonathan, the grandfather.
He assumed it gladly, even eagerly, and his whole existence soon centred
about the boy, and James--for so they had named him--became more to him
than his son had ever been. It grew evident that he would have the
Weeks build, and, by the time he was fifteen, he was as lean, big-boned,
awkward a hobbledehoy as the old man could wish. His grandfather's
wealth did not spoil him in the least; he was the kind of a boy it would
have been difficult to spoil.

He had no fondness for books, but it is to be doubted if that was much
of a grief to his grandfather. He was good at mathematics,--he used to
work out problems for fun,--and an excellent memory for certain kinds
of details enabled him to master geography without difficulty. The great
passion of his boyhood was for the big, roaring, pounding steamboats
that went down to New Orleans. His ambition, like that of nearly every
boy who lived in sight of those packets, was to be a river pilot, and he
was nearing his majority before he outgrew it.

He was twenty-two years old when he fell in love with Ethel Harvey. She
was nineteen when she came home from the Eastern school where she had
spent the past five years, and she burst upon Jim in the first glory
of her womanhood. When she had grown an old woman the young girls still
envied her beauty, and wondered what it must have been in its first
bloom. Small wonder that Jim fell in love with her; it was inevitable.

He first saw her, after her return, on a bright June morning as he was
strolling down the path from his grandfather's house to the street. She
was riding her big bay mare at a smart gallop, but she pulled up short
at sight of him, and drawing off a riding gauntlet held out her hand.
From that moment Jim loved her. The old man was coming down the path,
but seeing them there together, he paused, for they made a striking
picture. Her little silk hat sat daintily on her hair, which would
be rebellious and fluffy; the dark green riding habit with its tight
sleeves revealed the perfect lines of her lithe figure, which swayed
gracefully as the mare pawed and backed and plunged, impatient for the
morning gallop. She seemed quite indifferent to the protests of the
big brute, and talked merrily to Jim, who stood looking up at her in
bewildered admiration. At last she shook hands again and rode away,
and Jonathan Weeks walked back into the house with a satisfied smile.
“They'll do,” he said.

It looked as though they would. Through the short happy weeks that
followed, Ethel did not ride alone. Together they explored the country
lanes or left them for a dash straight across the fields, taking
anything that chanced to be in the way. In their impromptu races, which
were frequent, Ethel almost always won; for racer though he was, Jim's
sorrel found the two hundred and eight pounds he carried too much of
a handicap. So the days went by, and though nothing was said about it,
they talked to each other, and thought of each other, as lovers do.

But all the while there was growing in Ethel's mind an intuition that
something was wrong. She had not an analytical mind, but she became
convinced that though she might learn to understand Jim, he could never
understand her. It was not only that she was the first woman who had
come into his life, though that had much to do with it. But he was a man
without much instinct or imagination; he took everything seriously and
literally, he could not understand a whim. And when she saw how her
pretty feminine inconsistencies puzzled him, and how he failed to
understand the whimsical, butterfly fancies she confided to him, she
would cry with vexation, and think she hated him; but then the knightly
devotion of his big heart would win her back again, and her tears would
cease to burn her cheeks, and she would tell herself how unworthy she
was of the love of a man like that. But the trouble was still there;
Ethel grew sad, and Jim, more than ever, failed to understand. The old
man watched, but said nothing.

One evening Jim took her out on the river. It was the summer of
'61, when the North was learning how bitter was the task it had to
accomplish. Kentucky was disputed ground and feeling ran high there;
little else was thought of. Jim had been talking to her for some time
on this all-absorbing topic while she sat silent in the stern, her hand
trailing in the water. Finally he asked why she was so quiet.

“I think this war is very stupid,” she said. “Let's talk about”--here
she paused and her eyes followed the big night boat which was churning
its way down the river--“about paddle-wheels, or port lights, or
something.”

Jim said nothing; he had nothing to say. She went on:--

“Don't you think it is tiresome to always mean what you say? I hate to
tell the truth. Anybody can do that.”

“I thought,” said Jim, “that you believed in sincerity.”

“Oh, of course I do,” she exclaimed impatiently, and again Jim was
silent.

The next day he took her for a drive and it was then that the end came.
They had been having a glorious time, for the rapid motion and the
bright sunshine had driven away her mood of the night before and she was
perfectly happy; Jim was happy in her happiness. The half-broken colts
were fairly steady and he let her drive them and turned in his seat so
that he could watch her. As he looked at her there, her head erect, her
elbows squared, her bright eyes looking straight out ahead, Jim
fell deeper than ever in love with her. The colts felt a new and
unrestraining hand on the reins, and the pace increased rapidly. Jim
noted it.

“You'd better pull up a little,” he said. “They'll be getting away from
you.”

“I love to go this way,” she replied, and over the reins she told the
colts the same thing, in a language they understood. Suddenly one of
them broke, and in a second both were running.

“Pull 'em in,” said Jim, sharply. “Here--give me the reins.”

“I can hold them,” she protested wilfully.

Then, without hesitation and with perfectly unconscious brutality, Jim
tore the reins out of her hands, and addressed himself to the task of
quieting the horses.

It was not easy, but he was cool and strong, and the horses knew he was
their master; nevertheless it was several minutes before he had them on
their legs again. During that time neither had spoken; then Jim waited
for her to break the silence. He was somewhat vexed, for he thought she
had deliberately exposed herself to an unnecessary peril. But she said
nothing and they finished their drive in silence.

At her door he sprang out to help her to alight, but she ignored his
offered aid. Though she turned away he saw that there were tears in her
eyes.

“Ethel,” he said softly, but she faced him in a flash of anger.

“Don't speak to me. Oh--how I hate you!”

Jim seemed suddenly to grow bigger. “Will you please tell me if you mean
that?” he said slowly.

“I mean just that,” she answered. “I--I hate you.” She stood still a
moment; then she seemed to choke, and turning, fled into the house.

To Jim's mind that was the end of it. She had told him that she hated
him. The fact that there had been a catch in her voice as she said it
weighed not at all with him; that was an unknown language. So he took
her literally and exactly and went away by himself to think it over.

He was late for dinner that night, and when he came in his grandfather
was pacing the dining room. But Jim wasted no words in explanation.

“Grandfather,” he said, “I think if you won't need me for a while I'll
enlist to-morrow.”

“I can get along all right,” said the old man, “but I'm sorry you're
going.”

The older man was looking at the younger one narrowly. Suddenly and
bluntly he asked:--

“Is anything the matter with you and Ethel Harvey?”

Jim nodded, and without further invitation or questioning he related the
whole incident. “That's all there is to it,” he concluded. “The team had
bolted and she wouldn't give me the reins; so I took them away from her
and pulled in the horses. There was nothing else to do.”

“And then she said she hated you,” added Jonathan, musingly. “I reckon
she hasn't much sense.”

“It ain't that,” Jim answered quickly. “She's got sense enough. The
trouble with her is she's too damned plucky.”

A few days later he was a private in the Nineteenth Indiana Volunteers.
He made a good soldier, for not only did he love danger as had his
great-grandfather before him, but he had nerves which months of inaction
could not set jangling, and a constitution which hardship and privation
could not undermine.

The keenest delight he had ever known came with his first experience
under fire. He felt his breath coming in long deep inhalations; he could
think faster and more clearly than at other times, and he knew that his
hands were steady and his aim was good. Somehow it seemed that years
of life were crowded into those few minutes, and he retired reluctantly
when the order came.

His regiment was in the Army of the Potomac, and the story of its
waiting and blundering and magnificent fighting need not be told again
in these pages. Jim was one of thousands of brave, intelligent fighters
who did not rise to the command of a division or even of a regiment.
He was a lieutenant in Company E when the Nineteenth marched down the
Emmittsburg Pike, through Gettysburg and out to the ridge beyond, to
hold it until reenforcements should come.

They fought there during four long hours, until the thin line of
blue could hold no longer, and gray ranks under Ewell and Fender had
enveloped both flanks. Then sullenly they came back through the town,
still firing defiantly, and cursing the help that had not come. It
was during this retreat that Jim was hit, but he did not drop.
Somehow--though as in a dream--he kept with his regiment, and it was not
until they were rallied in the cemetery on the other side of the town
that he pitched forward and lay quite still.

Everybody knows how the Eleventh Corps held the cemetery through the two
bloody days that followed. But Jim was unconscious of it all, for he lay
on a cot in the Sanitary Commission tent, raving in delirium. And the
surgeons and nurses looked at him gravely and wondered with every hour
why he did not die.

But, as one of his comrades had said, “it took a lot of pounding to lick
Jim Weeks,” and in a surprisingly short time he was strong enough to be
taken home.

When he first saw his grandfather he was dimly conscious of a change
in him, and as he grew stronger and better able to observe closely he
became surer of it. Jonathan had been a young old man when Jim went
away; now he looked every one of his seventy-three years, and instead
of the tireless energy of former times Jim noted a listlessness hard to
understand.

One night after both had gone to bed Jim heard his grandfather groping
his way down the stairs and out upon the veranda. He listened intently
until he heard the creak of the rocking chair, which told him that the
old man was visiting again with old friends and old fancies. The slow
rhythm lulled Jim into a doze, and then into sleep. He awakened with a
start; his pioneer blood made him a light sleeper, and he knew that the
old man could not have got upstairs and past his door without waking
him. “He must have gone to sleep down there,” thought Jim, and rising he
went down to the veranda. Jonathan had gone to sleep, but the black cob
pipe was clenched between rigid jaws; his sightless eyes were open and
seemed to be looking at the stars.

At first Jim felt that sails, helm, and compass had been swept clean
away, but he was strong enough to recover his bearings quickly. His
grandfather's death marked an end and a beginning, and just as a needle
when a magnet is taken away swings unerringly into the line of force of
the original magnet, the earth, so Jim's life swung to a new direction.
There was no one whose life could direct or influence his, and alone he
started on what business men of the next generation knew as his career.

The war had lessened but not destroyed Jonathan's fortune, and it went
without reservation to Jim. The times offered golden opportunities to
a man with ready money and good business training, and his success was
almost inevitable. His life from this time was the logical working out
of what he had in him.

He turned naturally to the railroad business, and those who know the
history of Western railroads from '65 to '90 will understand what a
field it was for a man who was at once fearless and level-headed. The
craze for construction and then the equally mad competition did not
confuse him, they simply gave him opportunities. When the reaction
against the railroads set in, and the Granger movement wrecked nearly
all the Western roads, Jim bowed to the inevitable, but he saved
himself--no one knew just how--and when the State legislators were over
their midsummer madness he was again in the field, and again succeeding.

With the details of these struggles we are not concerned. The “inside”
 history of many of them will never be known; in almost every case it
differs materially from the story which appeared in the papers. Jim
became famous and was libelled and flattered, respected and abused, by
turns; but always he was feared. He was supposed to be dishonest, and
it is true he did not scruple to use his enemies' weapons; but at
directors' meetings it was the interest of the stockholders that he
fought for.

Men wondered at his success, and over their cigars gravely discussed
the reasons for it. Some said it was sheer good luck that turned what
he touched to gold, some laid it to his start, and others to his cool,
dispassionate strategy. To some extent it was all of these things; but
more than anything else he had won as a bulldog does, by hanging on.
Often he had beaten better strategists simply by keeping up the fight
when by all the rules he was beaten. For as the comrade of long ago had
said, “it took a lot of pounding to lick Jim Weeks.”




CHAPTER II


MR. McNALLY GOES TO TILLMAN CITY

It was Monday morning, September 23d. The telephone bell on the big
mahogany desk rang twice before Jim Weeks laid down the sheet of paper
he was scrutinizing and picked up the receiver.

“Hello! Oh, that you, Fox? Yes--Yes. Hold on! Give me that name again.
Frederick McNally. Dartmouth Building, did you say? Yes. Thank you.
Good-by.”

The bell tinkled again and Jim swung round in his chair.

There was another desk in the room, where sat a young man busy over a
pile of letters. He was private secretary to a man who was president
of one railroad and director in others, and his life was not easy. The
letters he was working over were with one exception addressed to the
Hon. James Weeks, Washington Building, Chicago. The exception was a pale
blue note addressed to Mr. Harvey West, and the young man had put that
at the bottom of the pile and was working down to it.

The elder man spoke. “West,” he said, “Fox has just telephoned me that
he's found out who's been buying M. & T. stock. It's Frederick McNally;
he's in the Dartmouth Building. He isn't doing it on his own hook, but I
don't know who he is doing it for. Somebody wants that stock mighty bad.
There isn't a great deal of it lying around, though.”

“Do you think that Thompson--” began the secretary.

“Thompson would be glad to see me out and himself in,” said Jim Weeks,
“and he leads Wing and Powers around by the nose, but he can't swing
enough stock to hurt anything at next election. I don't believe it's
he that's buying. Thompson hasn't got sand enough for that. He'll never
fight.”

There was a moment's pause. Jim walked over to the ticker and looked
back along the ribbon of paper. “It's quoted at 68-1/2 this morning,” he
said, “but no sales to amount to anything.”

“You might go over and talk to Wing,” he went on. “You can find out
anything he knows if you go at it right. I don't believe there's
anything there. However, I'd like to know just what they are doing.
You'd better do it now. Send Pease in when you go out, will you?”

Harvey slipped the blue envelope from the bottom of the pile of letters,
called the stenographer, and started out. He read the note while he was
waiting for the elevator.

The M. & T. is a local single-track road, about two hundred miles long,
running between the cities of Manchester and Truesdale. The former is on
the main line of the Northern, and the latter on the C. & S.C., both of
which are trunk lines from Chicago to the West. The M. & T. was not
a money-making affair; it had cost a lot of money, its stock was away
down, and it trembled on the brink of insolvency until Jim Weeks took
hold of it. He put money into it, straightened out its tangled affairs,
and incidentally made some enemies in the board of directors. There
were coal mines on the line near Sawyerville, which were operated in a
desultory way, but they never amounted to much until some more of Jim
Weeks's money went into them, and then they began to pay. This made the
M. & T. important, especially to the C. & S.C. people, who immediately
tried to make arrangements with Jim for the absorption of the M. & T. by
their line. C. & S.C. had a bad name. There were many shady operations
associated with its management, and Jim decided to have as little to do
with it as possible, so the attempt apparently was abandoned.

The stock of the M. & T. was held largely by men who lived along the
line of the road. Tillman City and St. Johns each held large blocks;
they had got a special act of legislature to allow them to subscribe
for it. These stockholders had great confidence in Jim, for under his
management their investment was beginning to pay, and they, he felt
sure, approved of his action in the C. & S.C. matter.

Everything was going well with the road, and the stock was climbing
slowly but steadily. It was not liable to any great fluctuation, for
most of its holders regarded it as a permanent investment and it did not
change hands to any great extent. Comparatively little of it got into
the hands of speculators.

But suddenly it began to jump. It was evident to every one who watched
it that some important deal was afoot. Jim Weeks was as much in the dark
as any one. He had watched its violent fluctuations for a week while
he vainly sought to ferret out the motive that was causing them. And on
this particular morning, though he sent his secretary, Harvey West, to
talk to Wing, he had little idea that the young fellow would get hold of
a clew.

When the elevator stopped at the main floor, Harvey thrust the half-read
note back into his pocket. “No time for that sort of thing this
morning,” he thought. “I wonder how soon I'll be able to run down to see
her.” A moment later he was walking rapidly toward the Dartmouth.

The men he saw and nodded to glanced round at him enviously. “Case of
luck,” growled somebody. That was true. Harvey was lucky; lucky first
and foremost in that Ethel Harvey was his mother. He got his mental
agility as well as his indomitable cheeriness from her. He was a
healthy, sane young fellow who found it easy to work hard, who could
loaf most enjoyably when loafing was in order, and who had the knack of
seeing the humorous side of a trying situation. He had always had plenty
of money, but that was not the reason he got more fun out of his four
years in college than any other man in his class. He “got down to
business” very quickly after his graduation, and now at the end of
another four years he was private secretary to Jim Weeks. That of course
wasn't luck. The fact that Jim had fallen in love with Ethel Harvey
thirty years before might account for his friendly interest in her son,
but it would not explain Harvey's position of trust. He knew that he
could not hold it a day except by continuing to be the most available
man for the place.

It is probable that on this morning, the contents of the pale blue note
contributed largely to his cheerfulness. It was evident that Miss Porter
liked him, and Harvey liked to be liked.

Wing's office on the sixth floor of the Dartmouth was a beautifully
furnished suite, presided over by a boy in cut-steel buttons. Wing
himself was a dapper little man, a capitalist by necessity only, for
his money had been left to him. His one ambition was to collect all
the literature in all languages on the game of chess; a game by the way
which he himself did not play. “Mr. Wing had gone out to lunch about an
hour before,” said the boy in buttons. “Would Mr. West wait?” Harvey,
who knew Mr. Wing's luncheons of old, said no, but he would call again
in the afternoon. As he walked back to the elevator his eye fell upon
another office door which bore the freshly painted legend, “Frederick
McNally, Attorney-at-law.”

Harvey lunched at the Cafe Lyon, which is across the street from the
main entrance to the Dartmouth. The day was warm for late September, and
he selected a seat just inside the open door. From his table he could
see people hurrying in and out of the big office building. He watched
the crowd idly as he waited for his lunch, and finally his interest
shifted to the big doors, which seemed to have something human about
them, as they maliciously tried to catch the little messenger boys who
rushed between them as they swung.

Suddenly his attention came back to the crowd, centring on a party of
four men who turned into the great entrance. Three of them he knew, and
the fact that they were together suggested startling possibilities.
They were Wing, Thompson and William C. Porter of Chicago and Truesdale,
First Vice-President of the C. & S.C. and, this was the way Harvey
thought of him, father of the Miss Katherine Porter whose name was at
the bottom of the note in the blue envelope. Thompson, a fat, flaccid
man with a colorless beard, was laboriously holding the door open for
Mr. Porter, then he preceded little Mr. Wing. The fourth man was a
stranger to Harvey.

He was starting to follow them when the waiter came up with his order.
That made him pause, and a moment's reflection convinced him that he had
better wait. He decided that if the meeting of Porter with the two M.
& T. directors were not accidental they would be likely to be in
consultation for some time, and he would gain more by inquiring for
Mr. Wing at the expiration of a half hour than by doing it now. So
he lunched at leisure and then went back to the sixth floor of the
Dartmouth.

He was met by a rebuff from Buttons. “No, Mr. Wing had not come back
yet,” and again “Would Mr. West wait?” Harvey could think of nothing
better to do, so he sat down to think the matter out. He was puzzled,
for the three men were in the building, he felt sure. Then it came to
him. “Jove,” he murmured, “McNally! McNally was that fourth man.” He sat
back in his chair and tried to decide what to do.

Meanwhile four men sat about the square polished table in Mr. McNally's
new office and anxiously discussed ways and means. The scrappy memoranda
and what appeared to be problems in addition and subtraction littered
about, made it appear that some ground had been pretty thoroughly gone
over. There was a momentary lull in the conversation, and the silence
was broken only by the tapping of Mr. Wing's pencil as he balanced it
between his fingers and let the point rebound on the top of the table.
There really seemed to be nothing to say. The alliance between C. & S.C.
and Thompson's faction of the M. & T. directors had been arranged some
days before. They had met to-day to see how they stood. McNally told
what he had done, and it was not so much as they had hoped he would be
able to do. The combination was not yet strong enough to take the field.
For the past twenty minutes Thompson had been leaning over the table
making suggestions in his thick voice, and McNally had sat back and
quietly annihilated them by demonstrating their impracticability, or by
stating that they had been unsuccessfully tried.

Beyond asking one or two incisive questions of McNally, Porter had said
nothing, but had stared straight out of the window. For the past ten
minutes he had been waiting for Thompson to run down. It was he who
broke the silence.

“We're stuck fast”--he was speaking very slowly--“unless we can get
control of that Tillman City stock.”

McNally shook his head doubtfully. “I'm afraid it's no good,” he said.
“Look what we've offered them already. They think the stock is going to
go on booming clear up to the sky, and they won't sell. We couldn't get
it at par.”

Porter's chair shot back suddenly. He walked over to the empty
fireplace, the other men watching him curiously. He spread his hands
behind him mechanically as if to warm them. Then he said:--

“I think we could get it if we were to offer par.”

“Offer par!” thundered Thompson. “We could get Jim Weeks's holdings by
paying par.”

Porter smiled indulgently. “I didn't say we'd _pay_ par for anything.
But I think if Mr. McNally were to sign a contract to pay par the day
after the M. and T. election, that he could vote the stock on election
day.”

McNally's plump hand came down softly on the table. “Good!” he said
under his breath.

But Mr. Thompson failed to understand. “But the contract?” he said.

“Such a contract would be a little less valuable than that waste paper,”
 Porter replied politely, indicating the crumpled sheets on the table.
Then he turned to McNally and asked, “How many men will it take to swing
it?”

“Three, if we get the right ones. Yes, I know the men we want. I can
get them all right,” he added, in response to the unspoken question. “It
will need a little--oil, though, for the wheels.”

“I suppose so,” said Porter, dryly. “I think you'd better get at it
right away. It's two o'clock now. The two-thirty express will get you to
Manchester so that you can reach Tillman about seven-thirty. It doesn't
pay to waste any time when you're trying to get ahead of Jim Weeks. He
moves quick. Have you got money enough?”

McNally nodded.

Thompson had come to the surface again. He was breathing thickly, and
his high, bald forehead was damp with perspiration. “That's bribery,” he
said, “and it's--dangerous.”

“I'm afraid that can't be helped, Mr. Thompson,” said Porter. “It's neck
or nothing. We've got to have that Tillman City stock.”

There were but four people in the room when he began speaking. There
were five when he finished, for Harvey West had grown tired of waiting.
He bowed politely.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Ah! Mr. Porter. How do you do? I beg your
pardon for intruding.”

Porter recovered first. “No intrusion, Mr. West. We had just finished
our business.”

McNally took the cue quickly.

“Mr. West?” he said interrogatively.

Harvey bowed.

“I will be at your service in a moment. Excuse me.”

Wing and Thompson had already taken the hint, and were moving toward the
door. Porter hung back, conversing in low tones with McNally. Then he
bowed to West and followed the others. McNally gathered up the papers on
the table, folded them, and put them in his pocket.

“Please sit down, Mr. West. What can I do for you? Wait a moment,
though. Won't you smoke?” He held out his cigar case to Harvey, who
took one gladly. Lighting it would give him a moment more to think, and
thinking was necessary, for he didn't know what McNally could do for
him. But McNally seemed to be doing his best to help him out.

“Don't you think it very warm here?” he said, as Harvey struck a match.
“Something cool to drink would go pretty well. If you'll excuse me for a
moment more I'll go down and see about getting it,” and without waiting
for a reply, McNally put on his silk hat and stepped out into the
corridor.

“He certainly seems friendly,” thought Harvey, as the footfalls
diminished along the floor, and then he puzzled over what he should
say when McNally came back. At last he smiled. “That's it,” he said
to himself, “I'll try to rent him that vacant suite in our office
building.”

When West had made up his mind that the party of four were not to meet
in Wing's office, he had decided to see if they were in McNally's. He
could not ask for Wing, of course, so he asked for McNally and trusted
to the spur of the moment for a pretext for his call. Now that McNally's
absence had enabled him to think of one he took a long breath of
satisfaction. He had accomplished what he had set out to accomplish, and
contrary to Jim Weeks's expressed expectation. There was no doubt that
it was a combination of the C. & S.C. and Thompson's gang that was
booming the M. & T. Moreover there was no doubt as to their next move.
“But it won't work,” he thought. “Jim owns about half of Tillman City,
and anyway they'll never sell when our stock is jumping up the way it
is.”

And having settled this important matter he switched his train of
thought off on another track. It reached Truesdale in a very short time,
but it had nothing to do with M. & T., or with Mr. McNally. He took the
note out of his pocket and read it through twice, and then smoked over
it comfortably for some time before he began vaguely to wonder why Mr.
McNally didn't come back. Five minutes later he glanced at his cigar
ash. It was an inch and a half long. “That means twenty minutes,” he
said thoughtfully, and then it dawned on him that things had happened
which were not down on the schedule.

He walked quickly to the telephone, and a moment later Pease was talking
to him.

“No,” said the stenographer; “Mr. Weeks went out to lunch about an hour
ago. He said he wouldn't be back to the office this afternoon.”

There had been no words wasted in the two minutes' conversation between
Porter and McNally after Harvey's abrupt entrance, and as a result of
it, while the young secretary waited and thought over the good stroke of
work he had done for Jim Weeks and of another good stroke he might some
day do for himself, Mr. Frederick McNally took the two-thirty express
for Manchester and Tillman City.




CHAPTER III


POLITICS AND OTHER THINGS

Harvey West was a young man. Perhaps had he been older, had his wisdom
been salted with experience, he would not have put two and two together
without realizing that the sum was four; but then, it is the difference
between twenty-six and fifty that makes railroads a possibility. He
walked slowly to the elevator and descended to the street. At the
corner he paused and looked about, turning over in his mind the singular
disappearance of Mr. McNally. “He can't do anything with Tillman's
stock,” thought Harvey. “They're solid for us.” But Harvey in his
brief business life had not fathomed the devious ways of the chronic
capitalist. He knew that commercial honor was honeycombed with corrupt
financiering, but to him the corrupt side was more or less vague, and
never having soiled his fingers he failed to realize the nearness of the
mud. Harvey had yet to learn that in dealing with a municipality or with
a legislature, the law of success has but two prime factors, money and
speed.

He walked slowly over Madison Street and turned into State. Weeks was
not in the office, and anyway he wished to clear his mind, if possible,
before he talked with him; meanwhile sauntering up the east side of
State Street with an eye for the shopping throng. People interested
Harvey. He was fond of noting types, and of watching the sandwich-men,
beggars, and shoe-string venders. Often at noon he would walk from
Randolph Street to Harrison, observing the shifting character of
Chicago's great thoroughfare. To Harvey it seemed like a river, starting
clear but gradually roiled by the smaller streams that poured in, each
a little muddier than the one next north, until it was clogged and
stagnant with the scum of the city. But to-day he was going north. The
sidewalk was crowded with eager girls and jaded women, keen on the scent
of bargains. These amused Harvey, and he smiled as he crossed Washington
Street. A moment later the smile brightened. Miss Porter stood on the
corner.

“Surprised to see me?” she laughed. “Father came up unexpectedly on
business, and I tagged along to do some shopping. Are you in a hurry? I
suppose so. You men never lose a chance to awe us with the value of your
time.”

“No,” Harvey replied, “I'm not at all in a hurry.”

“Good, then you can help me. I am buying a gown.”

They went into Field's, and for nearly an hour Harvey “helped.” It did
not take him long to realize that nowhere is a strong man more helpless
than in a department store. He went through yards of samples, fingered
dozens of fabrics; he discussed and suggested, all with a critical air
that amused Miss Porter. She tried at first to take him seriously, but
finally gave up, leaned against the counter and laughed.

“Suppose we go up to the waiting room,” she said. “You can talk,
anyway.”

With a smile Harvey assented, and they seated themselves near the
railing, where they could look down on the human kaleidoscope below.

“By the way,” said Harvey, after they had chatted for some time, “this
morning's _Tribune_ has a good joke on one of your Truesdale neighbors.
Did you see it?”

“No. Tell me about it.”

“Why, it seems that he--it was Judge Black--is up at Waupaca. He went
there in a hurry from Lake Geneva to get away from some cases that were
following him and spoiling the vacation he's been trying to get since
July. He moved so quickly that his trunk left him and went up to
Minnesota or somewhere. Well, the Judge was asked to speak at an
entertainment the first night at the hotel. An hour or so before the
time set for the speech he fell into the lake and ruined his only suit
of clothes. There wasn't a man there anywhere near his size, so he
appeared before the guests of the Grand View Hotel in the 'bus man's
overalls.”

Katherine laughed heartily.

“Father will enjoy that,” she said. “He loves to laugh at Judge Black.”
 And she added, “I wonder where father is.”

“Do you return to Truesdale to-day?” Harvey asked.

“No. Not until day after to-morrow. We go to the South Side to dinner,
father and I. Father told me to meet him here at half-past three.”

Harvey drew out his watch.

“It is after four now.”

“Yes, I'm a little worried. Father is usually very prompt. He had to see
some men about the railroad, but he said it wouldn't take him long. I'm
afraid something has happened.”

So was Harvey. The mention of Mr. Porter brought back to him certain
peculiar facts, and for a moment he thought fast. Evidently something
was happening. In case there was a chance of Tillman City wavering,
Jim Weeks should know of Porter's activity and at once. Harvey rose
abruptly.

“Excuse me. I find I have forgotten some work at the office.”

“Must you go? I am sorry.” She rose and extended her hand. “I shan't
be at home either night or I'd ask you to come and see me. But you are
coming down to Truesdale soon, remember.”

“Yes,” said Harvey. “Good-by.”

He walked rapidly to the Washington Building. Jim had left no word, and
Harvey called up the Ashland Avenue residence, but could learn nothing.
The Northern Station master returned a similar report: Mr. Weeks had not
been seen. Harvey sat down and rested his elbows on the desk. Already it
might be too late. He called to mind Jim's business arrangements, in the
hope of striking a clew by chance. He was interrupted by a few callers,
whom he disposed of with a rush; and he was closing his desk with a
vague idea of hunting Jim in person when he was called to the 'phone. It
was the station master.

“I was mistaken, Mr. West,” he said. “Fourteen has just got in from
Manchester, and he says he took Mr. Weeks out at noon.”

Harvey rang off and called up the M. & T. terminal station at
Manchester.

“Hello. This is Chicago. Is Mr. Weeks there?”

“Well--say, hello! Hold on, central!--Will you call him to the 'phone,
please?”

“Why not?”

“Where? At the shops?”

“Sorry, but I guess you'll have to interrupt him. Important business.”

“Can't help it if the whole road's blocked. Get him as quick as you can
and call us up. Good-by.”

Harvey waited ten minutes, twenty, thirty, thirty-five--then the bell
rang.

“Hello!”

“Yes.”

“Not there?”

“Wait a minute. You say he took the 4.30?”

“All right. Good-by.”

Harvey turned back to his desk with a scowl. He passed the next hour
clearing up what was left of the day's work; then he went out to dinner,
and at 6.45 met Jim Weeks at the Northern Station.

“Hello,” said the magnate, “what's up?”

“Porter is,” replied Harvey. “I cornered him and McNally with Thompson
and Wing, and I think McNally's gone after the Tillman stock.”

“I guess not,” Jim smiled indulgently. “They can't touch it. Tell me
what you know.”

Harvey related his experience, and as one detail followed another Jim's
eyebrows came together. He took out his watch and looked at it, then his
eye swept the broad row of trains in the gloomy, barnlike station.
The hands on the three-sided clock pointed to seven, and the Northern
Vestibule Limited began to roll out on its run to Manchester and the
West. Suddenly Jim broke in:--

“I'm going to Tillman. Back to-morrow.”

He ran down the platform and swung himself, puffing, upon the rear steps
of the receding train. Harvey stared a moment, then slowly walked out to
the elevated. He had not yet learned to follow the rapid working of Jim
Weeks's mind.

In the meantime Mr. Porter was nervous. Being unsuccessful in his search
for Weeks, and seeing the possibility of failure before him, he greeted
the hour of five with a frown; but he realized that there was nothing to
be done. McNally was on the field and must fight it out alone. It was
a quarter after five when he stepped from the elevator at Field's, and
confronted a very reproachful young woman.

“Sorry, dear, but I couldn't get away any sooner.”

“What was it, dad? That old railroad?”

“You wouldn't understand it if I told you.”

Katherine frowned prettily.

“That's what you always say. Tell me about it.”

“Well, it was very important that I should see a man before he saw
another one.”

“Did you see him?”

“No, I couldn't find him.”

“Does it mean a loss to you, dad?”

“I hope not, dear. But we must get started.”

“I thought you never would come. It was lucky that I had company part of
the time.”

“That's good. Who was it?”

“Mr. West.”

“Mr. West?--Not Weeks's man--not--”

Katherine nodded. Her father looked at her puzzled; then his brow
slightly relaxed, and he smiled. “By Jove!” he said softly. Katherine
was watching him in some surprise.

“Katherine, you are a brick. You shall have the new cart. Yes, sir. I'll
order it to-morrow.”

“What have I done?”

“You've saved the day, my dear.” Suddenly he frowned again. “Hold on;
when did you see him?”

“I met him about three. I guess he was here an hour or more.”

“Couldn't be better! But he must be an awful fool.”

Katherine bit her lip.

“Why?” she asked quietly.

“Don't you see? If he had seen Weeks early enough they might have upset
me. He must be an awful fool.”

Katherine followed him to the elevator with a peculiar expression. She
wondered why her father's remark annoyed her.



Before leaving Manchester Mr. McNally wired to the Tillman City Finance
Committee an invitation to dine at the Hotel Tremain at 7.45 P.M. During
the journey he matured his plan of campaign.

This was not likely to be more than mildly exciting, for twenty years
of political and financial juggling had fitted Mr. McNally for delicate
work. In his connection with various corporations he had learned the art
of subduing insubordinate legislatures without friction, if not without
expense, and naturally the present task offered few difficulties. That
was why, after an hour or so of thought, he straightened up in his seat,
bought a paper, and read it with interest, from the foreign news to the
foot-ball prospects. Mr. McNally's tastes were cosmopolitan, and now
that his method was determined he dismissed M. & T. stock from his mind.
He knew Tillman City, and more to the point, he knew Michael Blaney,
Chairman of the Council Finance Committee. Finesse would not be needed,
subtlety would be lost, with Blaney, and so Mr. McNally was prepared to
talk bluntly. And on occasion Mr. McNally could be terseness itself.

On his arrival he took a cab for the hotel. The Committee were on hand
to meet him, and Blaney made him acquainted with the others.

Michael Blaney was a man of the people. He was tall and angular, hands
and face seamed and leathery from the work of earlier days, eyes small
and keen, and a scraggy mustache, that petered out at the ends. He had
risen by slow but sure stages from a struggling contractor with no pull,
to be the absolute monarch of six wards; and as the other seven wards
were divided between the pro- and anti-pavers, Blaney held the municipal
reins. He still derived an income from city contracts, but his name did
not appear on the bids.

After dinner Mr. McNally led the way to his room, and in a few words
announced that he had come for the M. & T. stock. Blaney tipped back in
his chair and shook his head.

“Can't do it, Mr. McNally. It ain't for sale.”

“So I heard,” said McNally, quietly, “but I want it.”

“You see it's like this. When they were building the line, we took the
stock on a special act--”

“I understand all that,” McNally interrupted. “That can be fixed.”

Williams, one of the other two, leaned over the table.

“We ain't fools enough to go up against Jim Weeks,” he said.

“Don't worry about Weeks,” replied McNally, “I can take care of him.”

“Who are you buying for?” asked Blaney.

McNally looked thoughtfully at the three men, then said quietly:--

“I am buying for C. & S.C. Jim Weeks is all right, but he can't hold out
against us.”

“Well, I tell you, Mr. McNally, we can't sell.”

“Why not?”

“Outside of the original terms--and they sew us up--we never could get
it through the Council.”

McNally folded his hands on the table and looked at Blaney with
twinkling eyes.

“That's all rot, Blaney.”

“No, it ain't. The boys are right with Weeks.”

“See here, Blaney. You just stop and ask yourself what Weeks has done
for you. He's sunk a lot of your money and a lot of St. Johns's money,
to say nothing of Chicago, in a road that never has paid and never will
pay. Why, man, the stock would be at forty now if we hadn't pushed it
up. I tell you Jim Weeks is licked. The only way for you to get your
money back is to vote in men who can make it go. We've got the money,
and we've got the men. It will be a good thing for Tillman City, and a
good thing”--he paused, and looked meaningly at the three faces before
him--“a mighty good thing for you boys.”

“We couldn't put it through in time for the election anyhow.”

“The eighth? That's two weeks.”

“I know it, but we'd have to work the opposition.”

“Talk business, Blaney. I'll make it worth your while.”

“What'll you give?”

“For the stock?”

“Well--yes, for the stock.”

“I'll give you par.”

“Um--when?”

“That depends on you. However, if you really want time, you can have it.
I suppose you boys vote the stock?”

All three nodded.

“Well, you vote for our men, and I'll sign an agreement to pay cash at
par after the meeting.”

“Why not now?”

“I wouldn't have any hold on you. Anyhow, I won't pay till I get the
stock, and you seem to want time.”

Blaney glanced at the other two. They were watching McNally closely, and
Williams was fumbling his watch chain. Blaney's eyes met McNally's.

“What'll you do for us?” he asked. “It'll take careful work.”

For answer McNally rose and went to the bed, where his bag lay open. He
rummaged a moment, then returned with a pack of cards.

“Forgot my chips,” he said, seating himself. “Close up, boys.”

He dealt the cards with deft hands. Blaney started to take his up, then
paused with his hand over them.

“What's the ante?” he asked.

“Oh, five hundred?” McNally replied.

Blaney pushed the cards back.

“No,” he said, “not enough.”

Williams seconded his chief with a shake of the head.

“Well, name it yourself.”

“A thousand.”

McNally pursed his lips, then drew out a wallet, and counted out three
thousand dollars in large bills, which he laid in the centre of the
table.

“There's four playing,” suggested Blaney.

McNally scowled.

“Don't be a hog, Blaney.” He took up his hand, then laid it down and
rose, adding,--

“Can't do anything with that hand.”

The three Committeemen dropped their cards and each pocketed a third of
the money. Mr. McNally fished a pad from his grip and wrote the contract
binding himself to pay for the stock after the election on condition
that it should be voted at his dictation. He signed it, and tossed it
across the table.

“All right, Mr. McNally,” said Blaney, holding out his hand. “I guess we
can see you through. Good night.”

“Good night, Blaney; good night, boys.” McNally shook hands cordially
with each. “We'll have a good road here yet.”

When their footfalls died away in the hall, Mr. McNally turned to the
table, gathered the cards, and replaced them in his bag. The room
was close with cigar smoke, and he threw open the windows. With the
sensation of removing something offensive, he washed his hands. He stood
for a few moments looking out the window at the quiet city, then he
sauntered downstairs and into the deserted parlor, seating himself at
the piano. His plump hands wandered over the keys with surprisingly
delicate touch. For a short time he improvised. Then as the night quiet
stole into his thoughts, he drifted into Rubinstein's Melody in F,
playing it dreamily.




CHAPTER IV


JIM WEEKS CLOSES IN

It was midnight when Jim Weeks reached Tillman City. The next morning
at breakfast he recognized Mr. McNally, and though he nodded pleasantly,
his thoughts were not the most amicable. He knew that McNally meant
mischief, and he also knew that McNally's mischief could be accomplished
only through one man, Michael Blaney. Heretofore Blaney had not troubled
Jim. Jim's power and his hold on Tillman City affairs had combined to
inspire the lesser dictator with awe, and in order to obtain concessions
it had been necessary only to ask for them. Jim never dealt direct with
Blaney. The councilman to whom he intrusted his measures was
Bridge, leader of the pro-pavers. Jim had won him by generosity in
transportation of paving supplies. But when Jim left the hotel that
morning he wasted no time on minority leaders. Bridge was useful to
prepare and introduce ordinances, but was not of the caliber for big
deals, so Jim ordered a carriage and drove direct to Blaney's house.
Although the hour was early, the politician was not at home. His wife,
a frail little woman, came to the door and extended a flexible speaking
trumpet that hung about her shoulders.

“No,” she said in reply to Jim's question, “he's down on the artesian
road watching a job. He won't be back till noon.”

The road in question leads from the city to the artesian well a few
miles away. Jim turned his horses and went back through the town and out
toward the country. He found Blaney just inside the city limits, sitting
on a curb and overseeing two bosses and a gang of laborers, who were
tearing up the macadam with the destructive enthusiasm of the hired
sewer digger.

“How are you, Blaney?” called Jim, pulling up.

Blaney nodded sourly. He was a man of bullying rather than of tactful
propensities and he could not conceal his distaste for an interview with
Jim Weeks at this particular moment. To tell the truth, he had begun to
fear the results of the agreement with McNally which rested in his
coat pocket. Weeks was a hard man to fight, and wasted no words on
disloyalty. However, Blaney knew that dissimulation would profit him
nothing, for to keep the changed vote a secret would be impossible; so
he squared himself for a row. Jim tied his horses to a sapling and sat
beside him, remarking,--

“I want to have a talk with you.”

“Haven't got much time,” replied Blaney, making a show of looking at his
watch.

Jim smiled meaningly.

“You've got all the time I need. I want to know what you're up to with
our stock.”

Blaney gazed at the laborers.

“Here!” he called to a lazy Irishman, “get back there where you belong!”

“Come now, Blaney, talk business.”

“What do you want to know about that stock?”

“How are you going to vote it?”

“I guess I can vote it.”

“Are you going to stick to me?”

“I don't know whether I am or not. I'll do what the Council directs.”

Jim gave him a contemptuous glance.

“Don't be a fool, Blaney.”

“See here,” said Blaney, rising; “what are _you_ trying to do?”

Jim rose too.

“You've answered my question,” he replied. “You think you can throw me
out.”

“I ain't throwing anybody out,” muttered Blaney. He walked away and
stood looking at the trench in the street which the men had sunk
shoulder deep. Jim followed.

“I'm not through yet, Blaney.”

“I haven't got time to talk with you,” blustered the contractor.
Jim stood a moment looking him over. Blaney's eyes were fixed on the
Irishman.

“How much did he give you?” asked Jim, quietly.

Blaney whirled around.

“Look out,” he said. “I don't know what you're talking about, but a
man can't say that to me.” His fists were clenched. Jim spoke without
emotion.

“Drop it,” he said. “I'm not here for my health. I knew all that some
hours ago. If I couldn't work it any better than you've done, I'd quit.
Now what I want you to do, Blaney--”

“See here, you've said enough!” Blaney was excited. “You can't come
around here and bulldoze me. We've bought that stock and we'll vote it
as we like, damn it; and you can go to hell!”

Jim looked at him thoughtfully; then he went to his buggy and drove back
to the hotel. He saw that Blaney was frightened, but he evidently was
too thoroughly bought up to be easily shaken. With what some men called
his “gameness” Jim dropped Blaney from his mind for the moment, and
began to plan for a desperate counter move. Before he reached the hotel
the move was decided upon, and Jim was placid.

The next man to see was Bridge. Jim paused at the hotel long enough to
send a message to the station agent to have a special ready in fifteen
minutes; then he went to the office of his lieutenant.

Bridge was an architect with a yearning for politics. For several years
he had tried to keep both irons in the fire, and as a result was not
over-successful in either. But he was a shrewd, silent man, and could be
trusted. Jim found him designing a stable.

“Sit down, Mr. Weeks. What brings you to Tillman?”

“Bad business,” responded Jim, shortly. “Blaney's sold out to the C. &
S.C.”

Mr. Bridge sat upon his table and said nothing. When taken by surprise
Mr. Bridge usually said nothing; that is why he had risen to the
leadership of a faction.

“I don't know just what's happened,” Jim went on, “but there's trouble
ahead.”

“Does Blaney say he's going to vote against you?”

“No,” said Jim, “but he gave himself away.”

“Can you block him?”

Jim passed over the question.

“I wish you'd watch him, Bridge. There's a deal on, and Frederick
McNally is the other party. He's for C. & S.C. of course. Do you know
him?”

Bridge shook his head.

“Well, never mind. I'll watch him. But you worry Blaney. He's a little
rattled now,--I reckon McNally's soaked him,--and if you're careful you
ought to find out something. I want to know just how they've fixed it.”

Bridge nodded.

“I'll keep an eye on him.”

“Well,”--Jim rose,--“I've got a train to catch. Good-by.”

He drove rapidly to the station; the agent hurried toward him as he
pulled up at the platform.

“I only got your message this minute, Mr. Weeks,” he said; “there isn't
a car in the yards.”

“What's that?” Jim looked at his watch. “Got an engine?”

“Only the switch engine.”

“I'll take that.”

The agent hesitated.

“You wouldn't get through before next week,” he said. “There's a couple
of passenger engines in the roundhouse, but they ain't fired.”

The telegraph operator leaned out of the window and broke into the
conversation.

“Murphy's firing the big eleven for sixteen from Truesdale. You might
take that.”

“Got a good man to run it?” asked Jim.

“Jawn Donohue's on the switch engine,” replied the operator. “He knows
the road.”

Jim dimly remembered the name Donohue. Somewhat more than a year before
his manager had reduced a man of that name for crippling an engine on a
flying switch.

“He's the best man you could get, Mr. Weeks,” said the agent, and
turning, he ran down the platform toward the freight house. Jim called
after him:--

“He's got to connect at Manchester with the twelve o'clock for Chicago.”

Jawn's dumpy little engine was blowing off on a siding. Jawn was oiling.
He was a short man, filling out his wide overalls with an in-'em-to-stay
appearance. His beard was brushy, his eyes were lost in a gray tangle of
brows and lashes, and he chewed the stem of a cob pipe.

“Jawn,” said the agent, excitedly, “get eleven up to the platform
quick!”

Jawn turned around, lowered the oil-can, and looked at the nervous agent
with impassive eyes.

“Why?” he said slowly.

“You've got to connect with Manchester at twelve o'clock.”

Jawn replaced his pipe.

“Wait till I kick them empties in on the house track. Who's it for?”

“Don't stop for that! It's the President!”

Jawn grunted, and walked deliberately across the tracks and into the
roundhouse, followed by his fireman. Murphy, the hostler, was hovering
about the big throbbing locomotive, putting a final polish on the
oil-cups and piston-rods. Jawn, without a word, climbed into the cab,
and out over the tender, where he lifted the tank lid and peered down at
the water.

“Never mind that,” the agent called. “You can water up at Byron.”

Jawn slowly clambered over the coal and leaned against the doorway,
packing the tobacco firmly into his pipe with his fire-proof little
finger.

“Young man,” he said gruffly, “I run this engine for four years without
taking water between here and Manchester, and I reckon I can do it
agin.” Then he pulled her slowly out of the roundhouse.

In the meantime, the operator had sent this message to the train
despatcher at Manchester:--

  Want right of way over everything. Pres. coming on light engine.

To which the despatcher replied:--

  Run to Manchester extra regardless of all trains.

When the engine finally rolled into the station Jim was pacing up and
down; he was as nearly impatient as Jim Weeks could be.

“You'll have to move faster than that,” he said shortly, swinging
himself up the steps.

Jawn glanced at him without reply, then looked at his watch. It was
twenty minutes after ten. He laid his hand upon the throttle and pulled.
There was a gasp of steam, a whirring and slipping of the drive wheels,
and the engine plunged forward. Jawn fingered the lever with a lover's
caress. He knew old “eleven,” every foot of her, every tube, bolt, and
strap. As they cleared the yards, he threw her wider and wider open
until she was lunging and lurching madly. The cinders beat a tattoo
upon the cab, and Jim Weeks crowded up into the corner. The fireman,
a strapping young fellow, threw in great shovels of coal with the
regularity of a machine, pausing only to wipe his forehead with the back
of his hand as the heat grew intense. When he opened the furnace door,
Jim could see the glowing bed lift and stir with the jolt of the engine.

Old Jawn, perched upon his high seat, never shifted his eyes from the
track ahead. His face wore the usual scowl, but betrayed no emotion.
Perhaps his teeth gripped the pipe-stem harder than usual, but then,
it was a pregnant hour for Jawn. The feel of the old pet under his hand
made his heart jump, and brought the hope that a successful run might
lead him back to his own. Jawn knew that he deserved something better
than a switch engine in the division yards, he knew that he was the best
engineer on the road, but he had steeled himself against hope. As they
whirled past the mile-posts his emotion grew. He felt that the President
was watching him closely, and he coaxed the steel thing into terrific
speed. The cab grew hotter and hotter. Jim loosened his grip on the seat
long enough to unbutton his collar and to twist his handkerchief around
his neck. The fireman was dripping, but Jawn sat immovable as marble.
They whirled past little stations with a sudden roar. At Brushingham a
passenger train lay on the siding. There was a mottled flash of yellow,
then they were by, and for an instant Jawn smiled. He hadn't passed Jack
Martin like that for years.

Then they struck the hills. Up with a snort, over with a groan, and
down with a rumble and slide, they flew. Here Jawn's eyes shifted to
the water gauge. Jim locked one arm around the window post, and sat with
eyes fixed on his watch. The minute hand crept around to eleven, passed
it, and on to five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. At thirty-five
clusters of cottages began to shoot by. Jawn's arm began to
straighten--the roar diminished a trifle. Thirty-seven they passed rows
of coal-laden flat cars; thirty-nine, they slackened through a tangle
of tracks; forty-one, the big engine rolled under the train shed and
stopped in a cloud of steam.

Jim stepped down and stretched himself. The fireman had staggered back
into the tender, and lay in a heap, fanning himself with his cap. Jawn
took a final glance at the water gauge, then he swung around and removed
his cold pipe.

“Mr. Weeks,” he said gruffly, “I brung ye a hundred and three mile in
eighty-one minutes. There ain't another man on the line could 'a' done
it. I reckon that's why there's nothing for me but a switch engine.”
 Without waiting for a reply he seized an oil-can and swung out of the
cab. Jim followed in silence, and hurried away with a grim smile.

At two-thirty Jim was in his Chicago office. For some time he was
closeted with Myers, treasurer of the road, then he closed his desk and
went out. He spent an hour with Spencer, a capitalist and an M. & T.
director. From four to six he was locked in his office, going through
his various collateral securities. At six he locked his office and went
home with a feeling of relief. The battle was on, and Jim was ready.
There would be a meeting at his house that evening between Spencer,
Myers, and himself; not a long meeting, but one productive of results.




CHAPTER V


TUESDAY EVENING

Harvey West liked to be comfortable. His rooms were in a quiet apartment
house on the West Side, within easy reach of the Metropolitan Elevated,
and not far from the big house where Jim Weeks held bachelor sway.
Harvey was not a musician, but a good piano stood in his sitting room.
He had accumulated a few etchings and two bronzes; and on the centre
table were piled the latest books. Harvey read these about as he
listened to Grand Opera--he recognized that a man should keep in touch
with such things. In a vague way he enjoyed them, but he was too honest
to cultivate the glib generalities that give so many men a rating
as connoisseurs of art, music, and literature. Harvey liked action.
Business appealed to him, anything with motion and excitement; then,
after the fever of the day, he was drawn to a few friends and a good
cigar. But back behind his straightforward democratic temperament there
was a dash of good blood, the sifting down of generations of gentlemen
and gentlewomen, that accounted for Harvey's inherent good taste. He
could not criticise the technique of a picture, but he never selected a
poor one. And the few books he really liked were the kind one can read
once a year with profit.

Early on this Tuesday evening Harvey was trying to read, but his eyes
would wander and his brow contract. At intervals he would turn in his
chair and endeavor to bring his thoughts back to the book. Finally he
shut it with a bang and, walking to the window, stood looking out over
the city. It had been a hard day for Harvey. He had passed hours waiting
to learn the result of Jim's efforts to head off McNally. The news that
C. & S.C. would undoubtedly control the Tillman City stock at election
had been closely followed by the discovery of unexpected strength in
the opposition directors. People used to say of Jim that he was never so
happy as when fighting in his last ditch, but Harvey derived no pleasure
from such operations. On this occasion he was particularly troubled. He
felt that his failure to tend to business the preceding afternoon had
contributed largely to the loss of Tillman City; and, worst of all, what
a fool Miss Porter must think him.

The boulevard below was hedged with two long rows of gas-lamps which
converged far away to the south. Sounds of the street floated up to
him--the clatter of hoofs on the asphalt, disjointed conversations
from wheelmen, juvenile calls and whistles. Harvey looked down at the
strolling crowds on the sidewalk, and felt lonely. He turned away from
the window, and took a cigar from the hospitable box on the mantel. Near
the box was a kodak picture of Miss Porter which he had taken some time
before. He held the picture to the light, and gazed at it earnestly.
“You had a fine laugh over me yesterday, didn't you, when your father
told you all about it?”

Harvey's big sitting room was popular. His friends had the comfortable
habit of dropping in at almost any hour of the day or night, sure of
a hearty welcome. But to-night the thought of visitors caused him to
replace the picture suddenly, seize his hat and stick, and start out
for--somewhere. At first he entertained a dim notion of going to Lincoln
Park, so he took the elevated down town, and started north on the Clark
Street cable. But as the car jolted along, he remembered that the band
did not play Tuesday evenings. He might take in the electric fountain,
but in the crowd you couldn't go about and look at people without being
in other people's way. Harvey was fond of the great public, but he liked
to hold himself in the background. He rode past the Park under the long
row of elms, gazing absently at the thronging walk where the middle
strata of North Side humanity take their evening promenade. Passing
the Park, he decided to go on to the Bismarck, where he could be among
people and yet remain alone.

A few minutes before eight he walked between the brown dragons which
guard the entrance, and crossed the raised pavilion between the street
and the garden. At the head of the stairs he paused a moment, then he
turned aside and seated himself at a table near by, where he could lean
against the railing and overlook the crowd below.

It was still somewhat early, and the long rows of white tables stood
vacant. By daylight the trees in a summer garden wear a homesick look,
but to-night the festooned incandescent lamps spread a soft yellow light
through the foliage, already thinned, though the night was warm, by
the touch of September; while high up on their white poles the big
arcs threw down a weird blue glare, casting a confusion of half-opaque
shadows upon the gravelled earth. Far to the front was the stage with
its half dome; the double-bass was tuning his instrument, a few others
were sorting music or running over difficult passages.

By this time the crowd was pouring in and spreading among the tables.
Harvey leaned back and watched the almost unbroken line that moved from
the gate to the steps. There were a great many family groups, with here
and there a chaperoned party from the suburbs. A sound of scraping
and squealing and grunting from the stage announced the orchestral
preliminaries. There was a scattering fusillade of applause as the tall
conductor appeared. Looking through the trees, Harvey could see him
rap his stand and raise both arms. The concert was on. Harvey's glance
shifted back to the stairway, and he started. On the bottom step,
looking about for a vacant table, was William C. Porter. Behind him,
standing, with head thrown back, was Miss Katherine Porter. For a moment
she looked at the shifting scene before her. Harvey noted with hungry
eyes the poise of her figure. Then she turned deliberately, and bowed to
Harvey with a bright smile.

A little later, as Harvey sat alone listening to the music, Mr. Porter
appeared, picking his way toward the centre aisle. Harvey watched him
idly. He finally reached the stairway, and came straight to Harvey's
table.

“Good evening, Mr. West,” he said, holding out his hand. “Won't you join
us? We shall be here for an hour, anyway.”

Harvey rose, and looked across the diagonal line of tables. Miss Porter
was leaning forward with a smile. Harvey's mind had been made up, but he
changed it and followed Mr. Porter.

Katherine received him brightly and immediately put him at ease. For the
time he forgot that Mr. Porter and he were nominal enemies. Mr. Porter
talked entertainingly of the people about them, a subject which Harvey
could continue with intelligence; and he was gratified to note the
interest in the daughter's eyes as he commented on the oddities of human
character.

They were looking at a party of Germans, who sat listening to the music
with the stolid interest of the race, when Mr. Porter rose and beckoned.
Katherine nodded to some one behind Harvey. A moment later he was
shaking hands with Mr. McNally.

“We've been watching for you for some time,” said Mr. Porter, as McNally
took the vacant chair.

“Have you?” McNally smiled easily. “I wish you had said that, Miss
Porter.”

“Oh, Mr. McNally, you know I was hoping for you.”

Harvey's eyes betrayed him, for she added in a bantering tone,--

“We must say such things to Mr. McNally, Mr. West; if we don't, he gets
simply unbearable.”

McNally looked at her with an amused expression. Evidently they
understood each other. As the banter continued, Harvey began to feel
uncomfortable. He tried to listen to the orchestra, which was playing a
lively march.

“Good, isn't it?” said Miss Porter to Harvey.

“Splendid,” he replied.

“Do you think so?” observed Mr. McNally. “Seems to me Bunge's a little
off to-night. Too much drum. Queer motions, hasn't he?”

Herr Bunge's motions were queer. He was very tall and spare, with an
angular, smooth-shaven face, and with a luxuriant growth of hair that
waved and flopped in the gentle breeze. His long arms were principally
elbow, and they swayed and crooked and jerked as though he were pulling
the music down out of the air. At times when he turned to the belated
second violins, his gaunt profile would appear in silhouette against a
glare of electric light.

“Do you know,” said McNally, fingering his programme, “Bunge ought to
stick to this kind of stuff. Last week I heard him play some of the
Queen Mab music, and it was wilful slaughter. Poor old Berlioz would
have sobbed aloud if he had heard it.”

Harvey felt awkward. He could not follow McNally's comments, and it
humiliated him. Miss Porter was quick to observe his silence, and
endeavored to draw him into the conversation, while Mr. McNally seemed
determined to hold the reins. There was some good-natured fencing, then
Mr. Porter rose.

“You'll excuse us, Mr. West,” he said pleasantly. “We have an engagement
for the latter part of the evening.”

“Yes,” added his daughter, “we promised to go out to Edgewater--the
Saddle and Cycle, you know.”

Harvey bowed and stood immovable, as father, daughter, and Mr. McNally
left the garden. She had given him a quick glance, and he wondered what
it meant. He sat down and absently broke the straws in his glass. The
orchestra had stopped, and a buzz of conversation floated into the
foliage. White-clad waiters bustled about with trays piled high.

After another number he started for home, blue and angry. As he left
the elevated and walked down Ashland Avenue, he saw that Jim's house
was lighted up, and he crossed over. Jim and he were better friends than
their relative positions indicated. Neither had family ties, and
Jim's interest in the younger man was perhaps the nearest approach to
sentiment he had felt for years. He seldom openly showed his regard, but
Harvey was perfectly conscious of it, and he valued it highly.

Jim was sitting alone at the table in the library. He greeted Harvey
by tipping back and waving toward a seat. The table was littered with
papers.

“How are you?” said Jim. “We've stolen a march on you.”

Harvey smiled, and threw himself wearily into a chair at the other end
of the table.

“What is it?” he asked. “C. & S.C. again?”

Jim nodded, and drawing out his cigar case, he took one and tossed the
case down to Harvey, then said:--

“Yes, and I think we've got 'em down. We've issued some more stock.”
 He leaned on the table and spoke in a confidential tone. “And I reckon
Porter'll be doing a hornpipe when he finds it out.”

“Who took it?” asked Harvey.

“Spencer, Myers, and I. The books haven't been closed, you know.”

Harvey blew out a thin cloud of smoke, and looked at it meditatively.

“Nine thousand shares,” continued Jim, “If there's anything he can do
now, he's welcome to try.”

“Do you think he will try?”

“Oh, yes, he'll come at us with something or other. But he can't do a
thing.”

There was a long silence, then Harvey said,--

“You didn't pay cash for the stock?”

“Ten per cent,” Jim replied.

Harvey fingered his cigar. Every new move of Jim's bewildered him. Jim's
imperturbability, and his eagerness for a fight where some men would
be discouraged, were qualities that Harvey was slow in acquiring. His
admiration for Jim amounted almost to reverence. Perhaps had he realized
the bitter fighting that was yet to come, if he could have foreseen the
part that he was to play with zeal and judgment, he would have been even
more bewildered, but Harvey was plucky enough; it needed only the right
circumstances to develop him.

“If he does fight,” said Jim, breaking the silence, “if he succeeds in
landing on us, why, then, look out for war. I'll put my last cent into
M. & T. before I'll give him a chance at it.”

“Is he likely to grab the road?”

“Maybe he'll try. But I'll have five hundred men with guns in his way.
I'll tell you, West, I'm not going to give in. I never have yet.”

“No,” said Harvey, thoughtfully, “I don't believe you have.” And he
added, “I saw Porter to-night.”

“Where?”

“Up at the Bismarck. McNally was with him.”

“Anybody else?”

“His daughter.”

“Pretty girl, I hear.”

“Yes,”--Harvey spoke slowly,--“she is. A very pretty girl. Her father
seems to be a gentleman.”

“Oh, Porter's all right. He's doing what 'most any man in his place
would do. It's business. There's nothing personal in it.”

“I suppose not,” Harvey replied. “It's still a little odd to me. I'm
afraid I'd want to break his head.”

Jim laughed.

“You'll get over that. I reckon you haven't got anything against his
daughter.”

“Perhaps not,” said Harvey; “but that's different.”

“Oh, is it?”

Harvey sat for a moment without reply, then he tossed his half-smoked
cigar into the ashtray and rose.

“Don't go, West. I shall be up for a long while.”

“I'm tired,” Harvey replied. “I need sleep. Good night.”

Harvey walked home slowly. Once in his room, he did not light up;
instead he drew an easy-chair to the window and stretched out where he
could feel the breeze. It had been a strange evening. He went back over
the conversation in the Bismarck. Katherine had seemed even prettier
than usual; but before every picture of her rose the calm, smiling face
of McNally--McNally with his pudgy hands and his cool blue eyes, his
ease and his well-placed comment. Harvey rested an elbow on the sill and
looked out the window. The crowds were gone now. No sound came save the
rustle of the leaves and the occasional rumble of the elevated trains.
The moon was clouded, but over the trees the stars were out, as clear
and soft as on other evenings that had not seemed so dreary. He turned
away and walked over to the mantel, where Katherine's picture leaned
against the wall. He found it without striking a light, and brought it
to the window. By the dim light from the street and the sky, he could
see her face in faint outline.

“Well, Miss Katherine,” he said, looking into the shadowy eyes, “I guess
Jim Weeks isn't the only fighter here.”




CHAPTER VI


JUDGE BLACK

There are two kinds of business men: those who make their business at
once work and play, a means of acquiring wealth and a most exciting
game whose charms make all other games seem flat and unprofitable; and
another class who, though they may enjoy work, turn for recreation to
whist or philanthropy or golf. Porter belonged to the latter class. He
went into the fight against Jim Weeks simply because he hoped it would
make him richer, and it did not occur to him that he could enjoy the
action. On Wednesday morning he sat in his office wondering if he could
not get away to the Truesdale golf links for a match that afternoon.

He looked over the ground carefully, and could see no way by which Weeks
could save himself from defeat, for the control of Tillman City gave C.
& S.C. a majority of the stock. Weeks's allies were deserting him,
so that he now had a bare majority in the Board of Directors. Anyway,
McNally would be on the ground in case Jim should try to do anything.

“Well,” thought Porter, “I'll go. I guess it's safe enough.” He had
closed his desk when the door opened and an office boy came in with a
telegram. Porter tore it open listlessly, but his indolence vanished as
he read the first line. The message was from Manchester, and it read as
follows:--

  M. & T. subscription book stubs show issue of nine thousand shares
  new stock to Weeks, Myers, and Spencer, ten per cent paid, dated
  yesterday.

  POWERS.

When a man finds himself in an ambush, or when an utterly unexpected
attack is made upon him, he shows what he is. It was characteristic of
Porter that after the moment of dazed unrealization had passed he began
almost mechanically to plan a break for cover; he wished that he had
not gone into the fight, and berated his stupidity in not foreseeing the
move; it had not occurred to him that the subscription for the stock had
not closed long ago. After a few minutes of vain search for an avenue
of retreat, he saw that it was too late to do anything but fight it out;
Jim Weeks was not likely to let an antagonist off easily.

He called to his secretary: “Telephone Shields to come over here, will
you, as soon as he can? And ask McNally to come too.” While he was
waiting for them he sat quite still in his big chair and thought hard,
but he could see no way of countering the blow.

The two men he had sent for came into the office together. Porter
did not rise. With a nod of greeting he handed the yellow envelope to
McNally, who whistled softly as he caught its import, and passed it on
to Shields, an attorney for the C. & S.C., an emotionless, noncommittal
man.

“Hm--it looks as though that beat you,” he said slowly.

Porter lost his nerve and his temper too for a moment. He rose quickly
and took a step toward the lawyer.

“Hell, man!” he exclaimed angrily. “We can't be beat. We've got to get
out of this some way. That's what you're here for.” Then he recovered
himself. “I beg your pardon, Shields. Sit down, and we'll talk this
business over.”

For nearly an hour the three men sat in earnest consultation; then the
secretary was called in.

“Find out if Judge Black is in Truesdale,” said Porter. “If he is, I
want to talk to him.” Then he turned to Shields.

“That's our move,” he said. “We can allege fraud on the ground that
the stock was issued secretly and with the purpose of influencing the
election. Black's the man for that business.”

“It isn't much of a case, mind you,” said Shields. “I'm afraid that
Weeks's action is not illegal, and that a court would sustain it, but
it's possible to raise a question that it will take time to decide.”

“That's all we need,” said Porter, with a sigh of relief. “If we raise
the question, Black will do the rest.”

It was several minutes before the secretary came back from the
telephone.

“Well, did you get him?” asked Porter.

“No,” said the secretary; “he isn't in Truesdale.”

“Where is he?”

“I couldn't find out. His stenographer wouldn't tell me.”

“Wouldn't tell you, eh?” said Porter. “Just get Truesdale again; I'll
talk with that young man myself.”

When he began talking his voice was mild and persuasive, and Shields and
McNally listened expectantly. As the minutes went by and he did not get
the information he wanted, it became evident that the cocksure young
man at the other end of the line was rasping through what was left of
Porter's patience as an emery wheel does through soft iron. As might be
expected, the process was accompanied with a shower of sparks. Porter's
voice rose and swelled in volume until at last he shouted, “You don't
care who I am? Why, you damned little fool--” and then he stopped, for a
sharp click told him that he was cut off, even from the central office,
and he was not angry enough to go on swearing at an unresponsive
telephone.

For a moment he stood biting his lip in a nervous effort to control
himself, then he joined feebly in the laughter the other two men had
raised against him. A moment later he pulled out his watch, and turning
to McNally said:--

“Keep your eye on Weeks, will you? I'm going to Truesdale on the
eleven-thirty to find Black. Good-by.”

Katherine was not surprised when twenty minutes later her father
appeared and told her his plans. That was the train she had expected
they would take.

“I'm going along too,” she said. “You're going to play golf this
afternoon, aren't you?”

“No,” replied her father, shortly, “I'm not going to play golf. I'm
going to play something else.”

The five-hour ride to Truesdale was for the most part a silent one.
Katherine knew that her father was worried about something, and when he
was worried he never liked to talk, so she asked no questions and made
no attempt to draw him away from what troubled him. Only when they
reached Truesdale and her father was about to help her into the cart
that stood waiting she stopped long enough to kiss him and say:--

“Don't bother too much about it, dad. And don't plan any business for
this evening; I want you to take me out on the river.” As she turned
the cart around and started up the broad smooth street toward home she
frowned, and thought, “I wish he would tell me more about things. I
believe I could help.”

Porter went straight to Judge Black's to continue his conversation with
the stenographer, but it needed no more than a glance to convince him of
the futility of trying to get any information from that source.

The new stenographer was a boyish-looking person who tried to convince
one that he was much older than his appearance would indicate. He
had big feet and a high voice; he used only the bottom notes for
conversational purposes save when in unwary moments Nature would assert
herself in a hoarse falsetto. He patronized Mr. Porter. He said that the
Judge had left town the week before, and that he would probably be back
in about ten days. He would send him no messages whatever, from anybody:
those were Judge Black's orders.

The young man seemed willing to go on talking at great length, and he
doubtless would have done so had not Porter suddenly left the room. The
Vice-President had thought of a possible clew. He walked rapidly to the
railroad ticket office and spoke to the agent.

“Did Judge Black leave town a few days ago?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered the agent. “I don't remember just what day, but he
went up on twenty-two.”

“Oh, he went east then. Do you remember where?”

“His ticket read to Chicago.”

Porter walked away thoroughly disappointed. The chance had looked like
a good one and there seemed to be no other. But he must in some way find
the Judge; he could not wait for him. The first thing he did was to call
up McNally by telephone and repeat to him what the agent had said. He
told McNally to find out at what hotel the Judge had stayed, if at any,
and to look for anything which might prove a clew to his whereabouts.
“It's a wild-goose chase, I know,” he concluded; “but then you may
manage to turn up something.” He knew that McNally would do everything
that could be done in Chicago toward finding the missing Judge, so he
went to work along other lines.

Judge Black was a member of two fishing clubs, one at Les Chenaux
Islands, near Mackinac, and the other about forty miles north of
Minneapolis, so Porter sent long and urgent telegrams to both these
places. Then he began making long shots, working through a list of more
or less likely places, which his knowledge of Black's tastes and habits
enabled him to get together. Just before dinner a message came from
McNally:--

  Black at Sherman House Friday. Clerk says he took three-thirty train
  on Northwestern for Lake Geneva. Can run him down in morning.

Thursday morning the two little telegraph boys at Lake Geneva and the
one at William's Bay had a busy time of it, for Porter and McNally
between them kept the wires hot; but neither hide nor hair of Judge
Alonzo Black could they discover. From ten o'clock on through an
interminable day the messages kept coming back, 'not delivered.' At
half-past four Porter telephoned his lieutenant to go to the lake and
continue the search in person.

At seven Katherine and her father sat down to dinner. She had known all
day that something was going wrong with her father's affairs, and she
could read in his silent preoccupied manner that he had not yet been
able to see a way out of the difficulty. She knew that she could not
make him forget his troubles. Many vain attempts had taught her that,
so she waited. The long dinner wore on Porter's nerves; once he rose
suddenly and walked toward his library, but stopped short when he
reached the door and came back to the table. Then he drummed on the arm
of his chair.

“Two days more of this,” he said, with a nervous laugh, “and that man
Black will have my life to answer for.”

“Judge Black?” asked Katherine. “What has he done?”

“Done? He's disappeared off the face of the earth just at this
particular moment when I've got to have him here.”

“Why,” cried Katherine, “I know where he is. He's at the Grand View
Hotel--” she paused and leaned forward, her elbows on the table and her
hands clasped before her. “It's some place up in Wisconsin that sounds
like alpaca. Waupaca--that's it. Grand View Hotel, Waupaca, Wisconsin.”

“Are you sure that's right?” he asked. “How do you know?”

“Mr. West told me,” she answered. “There was such a good joke on him in
the paper. I meant to tell you about it.”

But Porter was smiling over something else. After a moment he said:--

“We'd have been swamped long ago in this M. & T. business if it hadn't
been for the kind services of that wise and valuable young man, West. I
think I'll pay him a regular salary after this to keep him on the other
side in all the fights I get into. Lord, what a fool he is!”

He left the room so abruptly that he did not see how Katherine's cheeks
reddened, nor how her lips pressed together in vexation. If he had he
would not have known the reason for it any more than Katherine did.



Rainbow Lake is pretty in the daytime, but it is beautiful under the
moonlight when you can stretch out distances and imagine that the lights
at Bagley's Landing are those of a city twenty miles away, and when the
solid pine groves on Maple and Government islands loom up big and black.
The Judge was enjoying his vacation the better for its lateness. He had
bolted his supper early enough to secure his favorite chair in the best
part of the piazza: a mandolin orchestra was playing a waltz from “The
Serenade,” and playing it well, the Judge thought. He threw away
the match with which he had lighted his third cigar--to keep off the
mosquitoes, he blandly told his conscience--and leaned back in the
Morris chair, thinking how congruously comfortable it all was, now that
he had his own clothes and the 'bus man could work without soiling his
other suit.

A clerk came out of the office, peered about in the half light for a
moment, and approached the Judge, touching him on the shoulder.

“Judge Black,” he said, “Truesdale wants to talk to you on the 'phone.”

Five minutes later the legal luminary came out of the telephone box.
He was swearing earnestly, but softly, out of deference to the
candy-and-cigar girl. He walked slowly across the office.

“There's a train for Chicago at 8.30, isn't there?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the clerk. “Do you want to take it?”

There was another pianissimo interlude, at the end of which the clerk
was given to understand that he should order the 'bus for that train.
Then the Judge went back for his chair, but it was occupied by a little
girl who was just too old to be asked to sit somewhere else.

As Jim Weeks had said, Thompson wouldn't fight, and Porter realized this
quite as well as Jim. The recalcitrant Vice-President played no part
in Porter's calculations except as a somewhat blundering and obstinate
tool. But on Friday morning Thompson's office boy announced Mr. Porter.
Porter stated his case clearly. It was his plan to remove Weeks and
Myers by judicial order from the Board of Directors. That would leave
the opposition a majority of the board. Then Thompson was to call a
meeting and assume control of the books. That done, the battle would be
decided, and the election a mere formality. Thompson was badly rattled,
for he hadn't a grain of sand in his composition, but in the end he
conquered his fears and agreed to play the part Porter assigned to him.

At half-past two a disjointed-looking train panted into the Harrison
Street Station, and Judge Black climbed disconsolately out of the
smoker. There was a coating of cinders on the top of his derby hat;
there were drifts of cinders in the curl of the brim; there were streaks
of cinders along the lines where his coat wrinkled; and there was one
cinder in his left eye which gave him so leery and bibulous an aspect
that an old lady who narrowly escaped colliding with him turned and
looked after him in indignation, being half minded to go back and plead
with him to lead a better life.

It was fifteen minutes later when the Judge reached Porter's office, but
before three o'clock he had signed an order enjoining James Weeks and
Johnson Myers from acting as directors of, or from interfering in any
way with, the affairs of the corporation known as the Manchester &
Truesdale Railroad Company, and from voting the nine thousand shares of
stock in that company which had been issued September 25th.




CHAPTER VII


BETWEEN THE LINES

On Friday afternoon Harvey closed his desk with a feeling of relief.
There had been plenty of work for the past few days, and Harvey's
thoughts had acquired such wandering habits that his work seemed harder
than usual. He had not seen Katherine since Tuesday evening, but
another note, dated Thursday evening, was in his coat pocket. He read it
again:--

  MY DEAR MR. WEST: As you have inferred from the postmark I am back at
  Truesdale; we returned Wednesday. I have about despaired of seeing
  you here, at least of your own free will, so I have decided to kidnap
  you. Will you come to a coaching party Saturday afternoon--or rather
  a brake party? We shall start from our house, weather permitting, at
  four o'clock, and drive out to Oakwood, returning by moonlight.
  Please don't let any stupid business interfere with your coming down
  and having a jolly time.

  Cordially,

  KATHERINE PORTER.

Harvey slowly folded the note and replaced it in his pocket. Then he
spoke to Jim.

“Mr. Weeks, will you need me to-morrow?”

Jim looked up pleasantly. Since the recent issue of M. & T. stock, Jim's
eyes had smiled almost continuously.

“Guess not,” he replied. “Going away?”

“Just over Sunday.”

“You aren't going anywhere near Truesdale, are you?”

“Why, yes.”

Jim whirled around to his desk and rummaged through some pigeonholes.

“I want to get word to a man down there,” he said,--“some fellow that
Fox talks about, who has a good team to sell. I thought I had his card.
Well, never mind, I'll call up Fox in the morning and get his name and
address. Then if you have time”--Jim smiled--“you might talk with him
and see what they are. Don't commit yourself; just size things up.”

Harvey bowed.

“I don't believe you need come around in the morning. I'll call you up
or wire you. But don't lose any dinners on account of it.”

The next morning Harvey went to Truesdale.

The Oakwood Club House stands on a knoll some eight miles up the river
from Truesdale. Giant elms shade the wide veranda, while others droop
over the white macadam drive that swings steeply down to the bridge
and vanishes in a grove of oak, hickory, and birch. If you stand on the
steps and look west, you can see, through the immediate foliage, the
Maiden County hills, their blue tops contrasting with the nearer green
of the valley. To the left, an obtruding wing checks the view; on the
right, leading straight down to the river, is a well-worn path.

After dinner the party strolled up and down the veranda, gradually
separating into couples. The twilight creeping down found Harvey and
Miss Porter alone by the railing. She stood erect, looking out over the
valley, her scarlet golf jacket thrown back, her hair disordered by the
long ride and curling about her face. Harvey watched her in silence. He
was glad that she was tall; he liked to meet her eyes without looking
down. He had often tried to remember the color of those eyes. Presently
she turned and looked at him.

“They're gray,” he said, half to himself.

“No,” she replied; “sometimes they are brown and sometimes green. They
are not gray.”

Harvey leaned forward.

“I'm sure they are.”

For a moment they stood looking into each other's eyes, then she turned
away with a little laugh and removed her sailor hat, swinging it from
her hand.

“Look,” she said, with an impulsive gesture toward the west. Harvey
followed her gaze. The dark was settling into the valley. There were
splotches of foliage and waves of meadow, with a few winding strips of
silver where the river broke away from the trees. “And to think that we
have only a few more such days.”

“Yes,”--he spoke softly,--“we don't see things like that in Chicago.”

“Why don't you come to Truesdale?”

“So long as Mr. Weeks stays in Chicago, I am likely to be there too.”

“You are fond of Mr. Weeks?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I never met him--I've heard a great deal about him.” She sat upon
the railing and leaned back against a pillar, her eyes turned to the
foliage. “Father says he is a good business man.”

“He is.”

“Mr. West,” she threw her head back with a peremptory toss--“I want you
to tell me something.”

“Wait,” he replied, “come to the river. Then I'll tell you anything.”

She smiled, but acquiesced, and they went down the path. Harvey drew
up a cedar boat and extended his hand, but she stepped lightly aboard
without his aid. Harvey pushed away from the bank and began slowly to
paddle against the current.

“Now,” he said, “the Sister Confessor may proceed.”

She looked up at him. He thought she was smiling, but she spoke
earnestly.

“I want you to tell me about this M. & T. fight.”

“I don't believe there is anything to tell.”

“You think I am not interested.”

“No--not that.”

“You men are all alike. You think a girl can't understand business.” She
seemed to be musing. “You like a girl who is helpless and fluttery, who
can be patronized.”

“No,” said Harvey, “not that either.”

“I wish you would tell me.”

“How much do you know?”

Before replying she looked out over the water for several moments.
Harvey rested his oars and waited. She turned to him, still musing.

“I'll be frank,” she said. “I am not going to say how much I know, but I
want you to tell me all about it.”

Harvey began to row.

“Of course,” she went on, “I have heard father's friends talking.”

Harvey smiled.

“You puzzle me,” he remarked.

“Why should any one wish to get control of your road?”

“Because there is coal on the line.”

“Is Mr. Weeks firmly in control?”

Harvey leaned over the oars.

“I wish I knew--” he hesitated. “Are we good friends?”

“I can speak for myself.”

“Why are you interested in this business?”

“Because--well, I will tell you the truth. Of course I know that father
and Mr. Weeks are--I suppose you would call it fighting. Father doesn't
understand how I could ask you down to-day.”

“I am glad you did.”

“I wanted you to feel that--you see we have been good friends, and it
would be too bad to let a thing like this--don't you understand?”

Harvey leaned forward and impulsively extended his hand. She drew back.

“Just shake hands,” said Harvey. He clasped hers firmly, releasing it
with a quiet “Thank you.”

They were drifting down stream under the trees with no sound save a
faint rustle from overhead. Strands of moonlight sifted through the
foliage, blurring the east bank into shadow.

“Do you know what I am thinking of?” Harvey asked in a low tone. She
smiled faintly and shook her head. They swung into a patch of moonlight,
and for a moment their eyes met; then she looked away and said,--

“We must go back.”

“It isn't late,” Harvey remonstrated.

“We must go back.”

Harvey obediently took up the oars, then hesitated.

“Please don't stay here,” she said.

They went up the path in silence. The brake stood at the steps, and the
other members of the party were laughing and talking on the veranda.
Harvey stopped before they left the shadow. Miss Porter walked a few
steps, then turned and faced him.

“What is the matter?” he asked. “Can't you trust me? Are you afraid of
me?”

She came forward and laid her hand upon his arm.

“Don't misunderstand me,” she said with hesitation. “If I were as sure
of myself as I am of you--Come, they are watching us.”

An hour later they stood at Mr. Porter's door.

“Good night,” said Harvey, but she lingered.

“Shall I see you to-morrow?”

“Do you think I had better come?”

“Why not?”

“Perhaps your father--”

“I want you to. Anyway,” smiling, “father is in Chicago.”

Harvey smiled too.

“I'll send the trap for you, and we'll drive--at ten, say. I suppose you
are at the hotel.”

“Yes,” said Harvey. “Good night.”

Mr. Porter's summer home was located on the river bank, something less
than a mile from the Truesdale Hotel. The walk was somewhat lonely, and
it gave Harvey time to think. At first he was bewildered. She had seemed
to be mistress of the situation, but at any rate he had told her nothing
about M. & T. affairs. There came into his mind a suspicion that she
knew more than she had led him to believe, for she would naturally not
let a man who had no claim upon her sway her loyalty to her father. And
yet, those eyes were honest. They had looked into his with an expression
that would charm away graver doubts than his. “I'll make her tell me,”
 he thought. “I'll find out to-morrow just what she means, and if--”
 In spite of himself, Harvey's heart beat fast at thought of the
possibilities which lay behind that “if.” From doubt, he drifted back
into a review of the evening. He called up pictures of her on the brake,
on the boat, or on the shaded path. When he reached the hotel he sat
down on the veranda and lighted a cigar. “Yes,” he repeated to himself,
“I'll make her tell me.” But in the morning, after a more or less steady
sleep, Harvey looked out at the calm sunlight and changed his mind.
“I'll wait,” he thought, “and see what happens.”

At ten, the Porter trap stood in front of the hotel, and Harvey climbed
into the trap and took the reins. As he started, a telegraph boy ran
down the steps calling to him. Harvey took the yellow envelope and with
a thought of Jim's errand he thrust it between his teeth, for the horses
were prancing. Later he stuffed it into his pocket until he should reach
the Porters'. The drive was exhilarating, and by the time he pulled up
in the porte-cochere he had himself well in control. She did not keep
him waiting, and they were soon whirling down the old river road.

Katherine was in a bright mood. For a space they talked commonplaces.
Harvey thought of the telegram, but dared not take his attention from
the horses until they should run off a little spirit, so he let them go.

“Isn't it splendid,” she said, drawing in the brisk air and looking at
the broad stream on their right. “Do you know, I never see the river
without thinking of the old days when this country was wild. It seems
so odd to realize that Tonty and La Salle paddled up and down here. They
may have camped where we are now. Sometimes in the evenings when we are
on the river, I imagine I can see a line of canoes with strange, dark
men in buckskin, and painted Indians, and solemn old monks, with Father
Hennepin in the first canoe. So many curious old memories hover over
this stream.”

The horses were slowing. Harvey said abruptly,--

“Will you mind if I open a telegram?”

“Certainly not.” She reached out and took the reins. Harvey opened the
envelope with his thumb. He read the message twice, then lowered it to
his knees with a puzzled expression.

“Bad news?” asked Miss Porter.

“I don't know. Read it if you like.”

She handed back the reins and read the following:--

  Mr. Harvey West:

  You are receiver M. & T. Come to Manchester at once.

  Weeks.

“Well,” he said, “what do you think?”

She slowly folded the paper and creased it between her fingers.

“Can you make it?” she asked.

Harvey looked at his watch. “Train goes at eleven. I've got thirteen
minutes.”

“Turn around. It's only three miles. We can do it.”

Harvey pulled up and turned. Then he hesitated.

“How about the team?” he said; “I can't take you home.”

“Never mind that. Quick; you can't lose any time. I'll get the team
back.”

Harvey nodded and gripped the reins, and in a moment the bays were in
their stride. Harvey's hands were full, and he made no effort to talk.
Miss Porter alternately watched him and the horses.

“They can do better than that. You'll have to slow up in town, you
know.” And Harvey urged them on.

As they neared the town, Harvey spoke.

“Will you look at my watch?”

She threw back his coat and tugged at the fob until the watch appeared.
“Three minutes yet. We're all right.”

But a blocked electric car delayed them, and they swung up to the
platform just at train-time. Harvey gripped her hand:--

“Good-by. I shan't forget this.”

But though her eyes danced, she only answered, “Please hurry!”

As Harvey dropped into a seat and looked out the car window, he saw
her sitting erect, holding the nervous team with firm control. And he
settled back with a glow in his heart.




CHAPTER VIII


JUDGE GREY

On Friday, after Jim Weeks had told Harvey that he was free to go to
Truesdale, he followed the young man almost fondly with his eyes and he
did not at once resume the work which awaited him. For Harvey's request
had set him thinking. During years that passed after the day when he
took his last drive with Ethel Harvey, he had not dared to think of her.
Later when he heard of her death, he did not try to analyze the impulse
which led him to offer a position to Harvey. As he grew to know the
young fellow he gradually admitted to himself his fondness for him, and
now that he believed that Harvey was in love, he allowed himself for the
first time the luxury of reminiscence.

The old Louisville days came back to him when he and Ethel rode together
through country lanes and he loved her. The wound was healed; it had
lost its sting a score of years ago, but his mood was still tender, and
as he stared at the pile of papers on his desk, thoughts of C. & S.C.
were far away. At last, however, the consciousness of this came upon
him and he thought, “I reckon I need exercise,” and then a moment
later, “It'll be quite a trick, though, to find a horse that's up to my
weight.”

He had hardly taken up his work when Pease appeared and told him that
a man wanted to see him. The man was a deputy sheriff, and he came to
serve on James Weeks the injunction which Judge Black had signed in
Porter's office two hours before.

It may be that his earlier mood had something to do with it; for as Jim
laid the paper on his desk, his thoughts went back half a century to one
of his boyhood days. It was a summer afternoon, and Jim and some of his
friends had been in swimming; somehow it became necessary for him to
fight Thomas Ransome. Jim had never been in a fight before, and he had
no theories whatever, but he found that he could hit hard, and it never
occurred to him to try to parry. Thomas was forced to give back steadily
until his farther retreat was cut off by the river and he saw that more
vigorous tactics were required. With utter disregard of the laws of
war he drove a vicious kick at Jim's stomach. Had it landed, its effect
would probably have been serious, but Jim, for the first time since the
fight began, stepped back, and with both hands gave additional impetus
to the foot, so that Thomas kicked much higher than he had intended, and
losing his balance, he toppled into the river with a very satisfactory
splash.

Jim smiled at the recollection and then read the injunction again to see
if it were possible to catch Porter's foot. His eye rested long on the
sputtery signature at the bottom, and he thought, “I might have known
that Porter wouldn't go into this business without owning a Judge.”

He put the paper in his pocket, then locked his desk, and with a word
to Pease he left the office. Jim dined down town, and not until after
dinner did he think of Harvey and his leave of absence. He would need
his secretary to-morrow, and it would not do to have him out of reach.
But the moments of reminiscence that afternoon came to Harvey's rescue,
and Jim in the most unbusinesslike way decided to get on without his
secretary. “He can't go through that but once,” thought Jim.

He left the restaurant and walked rapidly to the Northern Station,
and for the second time that week the Northern Limited took Jim to
Manchester.

Jim was going to see Judge Grey. He had already decided what he wanted
the Judge to do; whether he could get him to do it was another question,
which Jim was going to put to the test as soon as possible.

The trains on the Northern in coming into Manchester run down the middle
of one of the main business streets, and engineers are compelled by city
statutes to run slowly. As the Limited slowed down, Jim walked out on
the rear platform and stood gazing at the brightly lighted shop windows.
At an intersecting street he saw a trolley car waiting for the train to
pass; the blue light it showed told Jim it was the car he wanted, so
he swung quickly off the train and stepped aboard the car as it came
bumping over the crossing. It was evidently behind its schedule, for
once on clear track again it sped along rapidly. A man was running to
catch the car, and Jim watched him with amused interest. At first he
gained, but as the speed of the car increased he gave up the race; but
he had come near enough for Jim to recognize him as the man who had
dined only a few tables from him that evening in Chicago and who had
sat a few seats behind him on the Limited. Jim smiled. “They're mighty
anxious to know what I'm doing,” he thought.

Judge Grey did not go away on vacations. He was a homely man, with a
large family, and he took serious views of life. He was country bred,
and he had never outgrown a certain rusticity of appearance. It was said
that his wife always cut his hair, and the concentric circles made by
the neatly trimmed ends lent verisimilitude to the tale that she began
at the crown with a butter dish to guide her scissors, then extended the
diameter of her circle by using next a saucer, and last a soup bowl.

The Judge greeted Jim warmly, invited him into the library, and sat down
to hear what he had to say. Jim told him almost without reservation the
story of the fight for the possession of M. & T., beginning with his
large investment in the road and his election to the presidency of it.
He did not try to make a good story; he told what had happened as simply
and briefly as possible, and he interested Judge Grey. Part of it was
already known to him, and part filled in gaps in his knowledge. To him
it was the story of an honest struggle for something worth struggling
for. When it came to the latest move, and Jim without comment handed him
Black's injunction, the Judge's wrath flamed out.

“That's an outrage!” he exclaimed. “It's just a legal hold-up.”

“Possibly,” said Jim. “It was the best move they could make, though.
But,” he went on after a short pause, “I've got the right in this
business, and I want you to help me.”

“You want me to dissolve the injunction, I suppose,” said the Judge,
cautiously.

“No,” said Jim. “I don't. Just the other way. I'd like you to issue an
injunction that will go a little farther.”

There was another short pause, and then Jim began explaining his
plan. As he explained and argued, the fire, which had been crackling
cheerfully when he came in, flickered more and more faintly, and it was
but a fading glow when that most informal session of the Circuit Court
in chancery sitting came to its conclusion.

“That's all right, then,” said Jim at length, rising as he spoke.

“Yes,” said the other. “We'll do it that way. Are you going right back
to Chicago, Mr. Weeks?”

“No,” said Jim. “I shall be here for some time. From now on this fight
will be along the line of the road.”



Mr. Wing was oppressed by a sense of his office boy's superiority. He
read disapprobation in the round-eyed stare, and even the cut-steel
buttons, though of Wing's own purveying, seemed arguslike in their
critical surveillance. He would have abolished them had he not felt that
the boy would understand the change. If the boy had only forgotten to
copy letters or had manifested an unruly desire to attend his relatives'
funerals, his employer would have been a happier man. As it was, he felt
apologetic every time he came in late or went out early.

The directors' meeting which Porter and Thompson had decided upon
on Friday was to take place the next afternoon in Wing's office; so,
contrary to the little man's custom on Saturday afternoons, he returned
thither after lunch.

Porter and Thompson were already there, and the former was giving
the Vice-President his last instructions, with the evident purpose of
stiffening him up a bit. For Thompson seemed to need stiffening badly.
One by one, and two by two, the directors came straggling in, and
presently Porter, with a parting injunction to Thompson, left the room
and crossed over to McNally's office, where his lieutenant was waiting
for him. There they plotted and planned and awaited the result of the
directors' meeting across the hall.

In Wing's office the meeting was about to begin. It was easy to
distinguish between Jim's friends and the C. & S.C. people; for the
former, a doleful minority, were crowded in one corner doing nothing
because there was nothing they could do, while on the other side of the
room were the gang, with Thompson in the centre, talking in low tones
over the programme of the meeting. There seemed to be no hope whatever
that the President would be able to save himself, for his opponents
had a clear majority of two, and they were met to-day to press this
advantage to the utmost. Had Jim been there at hand, his cause would
not have seemed to his friends so desperate, for it was hard, looking at
him, to imagine him defeated; his very bulk seemed prophetic of ultimate
victory. But Jim was not there; he was not even in Chicago.

There was one man in the minority group who seemed somewhat less
cheerless than his companions. When they asked him what hope there was,
what way of escape he saw, he could not answer, but he still professed
to believe that the President's downfall was not so imminent as it
seemed. And the thought that perhaps this one man knew more than he
could tell kept the minority from becoming utterly discouraged. The
foundation for his hopes lay in a telegram he had received that morning
from Jim, which read, “_Don't get scared, everything all right._”
 Evidently Jim was not submitting tamely, but whatever was going to
happen must happen soon if it was not to be too late, for Thompson was
already calling the meeting to order. As the directors seated
themselves about the long table and listened to Thompson's opening
remarks,--Thompson liked to make remarks,--it seemed that for once in
his life Jim was beaten.

At that moment, in the arched entrance to the Dartmouth, a man whose
damp forehead and limp collar bore witness that he was in a hurry,
turned away from the wall directory he had been scrutinizing and entered
the nearest elevator.

“Six,” he said. Once on the sixth floor he looked about for a minute
or two and walked into the outer office where Buttons was on guard,
demanding audience with Mr. Wing.

“Mr. Wing is in,” said the boy, “but he is engaged and can't be
disturbed.”

“They're here, are they?” said the man. “Well, I want to see Mr. Wing
and Mr. Thompson and Mr. Powers.”

“But you can't see them,” was the answer. “There's a directors' meeting
in there.”

“In there, eh?” said the man, and without further parley with Buttons,
he entered the room indicated, closing the door behind him.

Meanwhile Porter and McNally in the other office were discussing
probabilities and possibilities and thinking of a good many others which
neither of them cared to discuss, though all were in their way pleasant.
Suddenly they were interrupted by the apparition of Buttons. His eyes
were rounder than ever, and his white hair looked as though some one had
tried to drag it out of his head.

“Please, sir,” he gasped, “Mr. Thompson wants to see you right away.”

Porter jumped to his feet and fairly ran out of the room. As he turned
into the hall a muffled uproar greeted his ears, and it made him hurry
the faster. But McNally stayed where he was. He, too, heard the strange
noise, but he felt that he would not be able to do any good by going in
there. McNally did not “come out strong” amid scenes of violence. His
heart troubled him.

It was not more than five minutes before Porter came back. His face was
a study.

“They're raising hell in there,” he said. “Weeks's judge has just served
an injunction that kicks Thompson and Wing and Powers off the board.
Thompson just curled up,--he was almost too scared to breathe,--and Wing
seemed to be having some sort of a fit. There was one idiot up on the
table yelling that the meeting was adjourned and trying to give three
cheers for Weeks.” (It was the man with the telegram.)

“Well,” said McNally, “what's going to happen next?”

“I don't know,” said Porter, breathlessly. “I don't see that anything
can happen. As things stand now there isn't a quorum of directors and
all the officers are suspended. The road can't do business.”

Suddenly he leaned forward in his chair and exclaimed:--

“By George, if that road doesn't need a receiver, no road ever did.
Telephone Judge Black quick. We'll get in ahead of Weeks this time.”

There was no delay in finding the Judge. Porter had indicated to him
the advisability of keeping himself on tap, as it were, and he was now
prepared to settle with neatness and despatch the legal affairs of his
employers. Before dark that afternoon he had regularly and with all
necessary formality appointed Frederick McNally to be receiver for the
Manchester & Truesdale Railroad Company.

But it was significant of Jim Weeks's foresight that the road already
had a receiver, for at that very moment he had in his pocket an order
from Judge Grey appointing Harvey West to that position.




CHAPTER IX


THE MATTER OF POSSESSION

The M. & T. terminal station at Manchester was in reality two buildings.
From the street, it looked like an ordinary three-story office building,
except that there were no stores on the street level. Instead, the first
floor was taken up by two large waiting rooms, the ticket office, and
a baggage room. Entering through the big doorway in the centre, you
ascended a few steps, passed through the waiting room, then up some more
steps and across a covered iron bridge which spanned a narrow alley.
This bridge connected the station proper with the train shed.

The offices of the company occupied the two upper floors. The same
stairway that led to the bridge doubled on itself and zigzagged up the
rest of the way. As you reached the second floor, the office of the
Superintendent was before you, across the hall. To your right were large
rooms occupied by various branches of the clerical force, while to
your left the first door bore the word “Treasurer,” and the second was
lettered “President.” The Treasurer's office was a large room, cut
off at the rear by a vault which contained the more valuable of the
company's books and papers: the main vault was downstairs. A narrow
passage between the vault and the partition led to a small window which
overlooked the train shed and the alley. On one side of this passage was
the vault entrance, on the other was a door which had been cut through
the partition into the President's private office.

Early on Monday morning, after a brief survey of the various officers
and a few words with the Superintendent, Harvey assumed the direction
of the road and established himself in the President's room, while a
big deputy sat at the desk in the outer office. The night before, at the
Illinois House, Jim and Harvey had talked until late, discussing every
detail of the situation. Jim had gone over the fight of Saturday,
winding up with a few words of advice.

“We'll have trouble,” he said. “Porter isn't going to let things slip
away any easier than he has to. The safe plan is to suspect everything
and everybody. Keep everything in sight. I'll be here to help, but from
now on you represent the road.”

Harvey arranged the desk to suit him, then he opened the small door
behind him and crossed the passage. The vault door was open, but a steel
gate barred the way. A key hung by the window, and as Harvey unlocked
the gate and swung it open, a bell rang. He examined the shelves, and
noted that the books were in place. He knew that the possession of those
books meant practically the possession of the road.

Reentering his office he found the deputy standing in the other doorway.

“Gentleman to see you, Mr. West,” said the deputy. “Won't give his name.
Says it's important.”

“Show him in,” Harvey replied.

The deputy stepped back and made way for a quiet-looking man who was
even larger than himself. The newcomer closed the door behind him.

“Mr. West,” he said, “Mr. Weeks ordered me to report to you. I'm
Mallory, from the Pinkerton agency. I have three men outside. Have you
any instructions?”

Harvey checked a smile. It reminded him of the stories of his boyhood.
But in a moment it dawned upon him that if Jim thought the situation so
serious, he must be very careful.

“Yes,” he answered slowly. “Put one man near the vault--here”--he opened
the small door--“let no one go into the vault without my permission.
Then you might put one man in the hall--somewhere out of sight--and one
outside the building. You understand that there may be an attempt to get
possession of the books. Do you know any of the C. & S.C. men--William
C. Porter, or Frederick McNally?”

The detective shook his head.

“Well, then, just keep things right under your eye, and report every
hour or so.”

The detective nodded and left the room. A little later Harvey opened the
side door, and saw a man lounging in the passage, looking idly out the
window.

Shortly after ten Jim came in to talk things over. He told Harvey that
the C. & S.C. people had a counter move under way, but he was unable to
discover its nature. He had seen McNally in company with a number of
men who did not often leave Chicago. “He'll be up here, yet,” Jim added
prophetically; and he went out without leaving word. “Don't know how
long I'll be gone,” was all he would say; “but you'll see me off and
on.”

Ten minutes after Jim's departure McNally appeared. Harvey heard his
voice in the outer office, then the deputy came to Harvey's desk.

“Mr. Frederick McNally,” said the official. “He asked for the
Superintendent first, and I sent him in to Mr. Mattison, but he sent him
back to you. Will you see him?”

“Yes,” replied Harvey. “And you may stay in the room.”

The deputy held open the door, while McNally entered.

“How are you, West?” he said brusquely. “There seems to be some
confusion here. The Superintendent disclaims all authority, and refers
me to you.”

“Sit down,” said Harvey, waiting for McNally to continue. Evidently
McNally preferred to stand.

“I wish to see some one in authority, Mr. West.”

“You may talk with me.”

“You--are you in authority?”

Harvey bowed, and fingered a paper-weight.

“I don't understand this, West.” He glanced at the deputy. “I wish to
see you alone.”

For a moment Harvey looked doubtful, then he smiled slightly, and nodded
at the deputy, saying,--

“Very well.”

“Will you tell me what this means?” asked McNally, when the door had
closed.

Harvey looked gravely at him and said nothing.

“Well?” McNally's coolness was leaving him. “Are you in control of this
road, or aren't you?”

“I am.”

“In that case”--he produced a paper--“it becomes my duty to relieve
you.”

Harvey looked at the paper; it was an order from Judge Black appointing
McNally receiver for M. & T. Harvey handed it back, saying, coolly,--

“Sit down, Mr. McNally.”

“I have no time to waste, West. You will please turn over the books.”

“They are in the vault,” said Harvey, pointing to the side door.

McNally looked sharply at Harvey, but the young man had turned to a
pile of letters. After a moment's hesitation McNally opened the door and
pulled at the steel gate. As he was peering through the bars, a heavy
hand fell on his shoulder.

“Here!” said a low voice. “You'll have to keep away from that vault.”

“Take your hand away!” McNally ordered.

“Come, now! Move on!”

“Mr. West, under whose orders is this man acting?”

“His superior officer's, I suppose,” Harvey called through the door
without rising.

“Call him at once, sir.”

The detective beckoned to a boy, and sent him out of the room. In a
moment his chief appeared.

“This man sent for you, Mr. Mallory,” said the detective.

“What is it?” asked Mallory.

McNally blustered.

“I want to know what this means. Do you understand that I am the
receiver of this road?”

“Oh, no, you aren't.” Mallory stepped to the door. “Is this true, Mr.
West?”

“No,” said Harvey, “it isn't.”

“You'll have to leave, then, my friend.”

“Don't you touch me!” McNally's face was growing red. For reply each
detective seized an arm, and the protesting receiver was hustled
unceremoniously out of the room.

An hour later McNally returned. He greeted the deputy with a suave
smile, and requested an interview with Mr. West.

“I'm not sure about that,” said the deputy.

“That is too bad,” smiled McNally. “Kindly speak to Mr. West.”

With a disapproving glance the deputy opened the door. Harvey came
forward.

“Well,” he said brusquely, “what can I do for you?”

McNally stepped through the door and seated himself.

“I've been thinking this matter over, Mr. West, and I believe that we
can come to an understanding. If your claims are correct, the road has
two receivers. You are nominally in possession, but, nevertheless, you
are liable for contempt of court for refusing to honor my authority.
Whichever way the case is settled, I am in a position to inconvenience
you for resisting me.”

He waited for a reply, but Harvey waited, too.

“In the interest of the road, Mr. West, it would be very much better
for you to recognize me, even to the extent of having two receivers. It
could not affect the outcome of the case, and it might avoid trouble.”

“I can't agree with you,” Harvey replied. “I shall retain control of the
road until the case is settled.”

McNally rose.

“Then, I warn you, you will have a big undertaking on your hands.”

“I suppose so.”

“Very well; good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. McNally.”

At noon Harvey went out to lunch. He met Jim at the hotel, and told him
what had happened. Jim smiled at Harvey's seriousness.

“The fight hasn't begun yet,” he said. “When you've been through as many
deals as I have”--he stopped and drew out his watch.

“It's one-thirty. You'd better get back. I'll go with you and look over
the field.”

As they walked through the waiting room Harvey fancied that he heard a
noise from above. However, the noon express, out in the train shed, was
blowing off steam with a roar, and he could not be positive. But Jim
quickened his pace, and ran up the steps with surprising agility.

As they neared the second floor the noise grew. There was scuffling and
loud talking, culminating in an uproar of profanity and blows. The first
man they saw was McNally. He stood near the stairway, hat on the back of
his head, face red but composed. Before him was a strange scene. Mallory
and the big deputy stood with their backs to the Treasurer's door,
tussling with three burly ruffians. Beyond the deputy, one of the
detectives was standing off two men with well-placed blows. The two
other detectives were rolling about the floor, each with a man firmly
in his grasp. There was a great noise of feet, as the different groups
swayed and struggled. In the excitement none of them saw Jim and Harvey,
who stood for a moment on the top step.

A stiff blow caught the deputy's chin, and he staggered. With a quick
motion Mallory whipped out a pair of handcuffs. There was a flash of
steel as he drew back his arm, then the maddened rough went down in
a heap, a stream of blood flowing from his head. One of the others,
a red-haired man, gripped the handcuffs and fought for them. It all
happened in an instant, and as Harvey stood half-dazed, he heard a
breathless exclamation, and Jim had sprung forward.

Some persons might have thought Jim Weeks fat. He weighed two hundred
and forty pounds, but he was tall and wide in the shoulder. On ordinary
occasions his face was so composed as to appear almost cold-blooded, but
now it was fairly livid. Harvey drew in his breath with surprise; he had
seen Jim angry, but never like this. In three strides Jim was behind the
red-haired man. He threw an arm around the man's neck, jerking his chin
up with such force that his body bent backward, and relinquishing his
hold on the handcuffs he clutched, gasping, at Jim's arm. But the
arm gripped like iron. While Mallory was pulling himself together and
turning to aid the deputy, Jim walked backward, dragging the struggling
man to the head of the stairs. On the top step he paused to grip the
man's trousers with his other hand, then he literally threw the fellow
downstairs. Bruised and battered, he lay for a moment on the landing,
then he struggled to his feet and moved his arm toward his hip pocket,
but Jim was ready. The breathless President started down the stairs with
a rush. For an instant the man wavered, then he broke and fled into the
train shed.

On his return Jim had to step aside to avoid another ruffian, who was
walking down with profane mutterings. This time Harvey had a hand in the
fighting, and he leaned over the railing to answer the man's oaths
with a threat of the law. Jim and Harvey stood aside while the four
detectives and the deputy led the remainder of the gang downstairs to
await the police.

From the various offices frightened faces were peering through
half-open doors. A few stripling clerks appeared with belated offers
of assistance, but Jim waved them back. Already Jim was cooling off. He
could not afford to retain such a passion, and he mopped his face and
neck for a few moments without speaking. His breath was gone, but he
began to recover it.

“Hello,” he said, at length, “where's McNally?”

Harvey started, then ran down the hall, glancing hastily into the
different offices. When he returned, Jim had vanished. While he stood
irresolute, two stalwart brakemen appeared from the train shed and stood
on the landing. One of them called up,--

“Can we help you, sir?”

“Wait a minute,” said Harvey.

A door opened down the hall. Harvey looked toward the sound, and saw Jim
backing out of the wash-room, followed by McNally, whose arm was held
firmly in Jim's grasp. They came toward Harvey in silence.

“He was hiding, West,” said Jim, a savage eagerness in his voice. “He
hadn't the nerve to stick it out. Corker, isn't he?”

McNally stood for a moment looking doggedly out through the window over
the roof of the shed.

“You've got yourself into a mess, Weeks,” he said, speaking slowly in an
effort to bring himself under control. “This'll land you in Joliet.”

For reply Jim looked him over contemptuously, and tightened his grasp
until the other winced. Then he suddenly loosened his hold, stepped
back, and calling, “Catch him, boys!” kicked McNally with a mighty
swing.

Harvey laughed hysterically as the flying figure sailed down the
stairway, then he heard Jim say to the brakemen,--

“Take him to Mallory, and tell him to put him with the others.”

“Well,” said Harvey, nervously, “I guess that's settled.”

“No,” said Jim, “it's only just begun. He'll be on deck again before
night.” The next sentence was lost in the mopping handkerchief, but
as he turned into the office, he added, “We'll have to lose the books
to-night, West.”




CHAPTER X


SOMEBODY LOSES THE BOOKS

When Harvey went to dinner in the evening he left a force of ten
detectives guarding the offices. Jim, who had spent the afternoon with
Harvey, superintended the placing of the men. Mallory, the lieutenant
in charge, was ensconced in the Superintendent's office, and six of his
assistants were with him, privileged to doze until called. One man stood
in the hall, in a position to watch the stairway and the windows at each
end; one patrolled the waiting room; and the ninth man strolled about in
front of the building, loitering in the shadows and watching the street
with trained eye. Before leaving the station Jim had a short talk with
Mallory.

“Watch it awful close,” he said. “There's no telling what these people
will do.”

“Very well, Mr. Weeks. They won't get ahead of us. But I should feel a
bit safer if you'd let me put a man by the vault.”

Jim shook his head.

“There's such a thing as doing it too well, Mallory. And by all means I
hope that you won't do that.”

He looked closely at the detective, who glanced away with a cautious
nod.

That evening after dinner, Jim telephoned for Mattison, the
Superintendent, and a long talk ensued in Jim's room at the hotel.
Neither he nor Harvey wasted time in recounting the experiences of the
day; they had too many plans for the night. As Jim had said, it was
necessary to lose the books, and to lose them thoroughly. It was
equally important that the action should not be confided to any ordinary
employee. The fewer men that knew of it, the safer Jim would be, and
so he finally decided to confine the information within its original
limits.

“You two are lively on your feet,” he said. “And it is a good deal
better for you to do it.”

“How about the detectives?” asked Mattison.

“You'll have to keep out of their way. Mallory won't trouble you so
long as you keep still; but remember, every man, detective or not, that
catches you, makes one more chance for evidence against us.”

“But isn't the building surrounded?”

“No. There's only one man outside, and he is in front. You can go
through the alley and climb up to the window--it's only the second
floor. Mallory has orders to keep out of the vault room. He's over in
your office, Mattison.”

“I suppose,” suggested Harvey, “that unless we are actually caught with
the books, we can throw a bluff about a tour of inspection or something
of that sort.”

“And if we are caught,” said Mattison, “I suppose we can run like the
devil.”

“You'll have to trust the details more or less to circumstances,” was
Jim's reply.

“How about the books?” asked Harvey. “What shall we do with them?”

“Mattison had better take care of them. We can't bring them to the
hotel, and anyhow, it is just as well if you and I, West, don't know
anything about them. Then, when we want them again, it is a good
deal easier for Mattison to find them than for any one else. Sort of
accident, you know.”

It was finally agreed that before attempting to get the books, Harvey
and Mattison should make a _bona fide_ tour of inspection, by this means
finding out where each man was located. Mattison reminded them that the
watchman in the train shed was not to be overlooked, but they decided to
chance him.

“There's one thing about it,” said Mattison, smiling. “If Johnson
doesn't catch us, I can discharge him for incompetency.”

Shortly after midnight Harvey and Mattison started out. They found
the station dark. As they tiptoed slowly along, edging close to the
building, everything was silent. They reached the arched doorway, and
were turning in when the glare of a bull's-eye lantern flashed into
their eyes. Mattison laughed softly.

“That's business,” he said.

“What are you up to?” growled the man behind the lantern.

“Where's Mallory?” was Mattison's answer.

The man hesitated, then whistled softly. The whistle was echoed in the
waiting room. In a few moments the door opened and a voice said, “What's
up?”

“Two chaps want Mallory.”

Harvey and Mattison still stood on the stone step, looking into the
lantern. They could see neither door nor man. After a short wait,
evidently for scrutiny, the door closed. When it opened again, Mallory's
voice said, “Close that light,” adding, “Is anything the matter, Mr.
West?”

“No,” replied Harvey. “We're keeping an eye open. I see your men know
their business. Have you had any trouble?”

“Everything is quiet. Do you care to come in?”

Harvey responded by entering, with Mattison following. As they crossed
the waiting room, Mallory drew their attention to a shadow near a
window.

“One of our boys,” he said in a low tone. “I put out all the lights. It
makes it a good deal easier to watch.”

Up in Mattison's office the detectives were lounging about, some
dozing, some conversing in low tones. The gas burned low, and the window
shutters were covered with the rugs from the President's office, to keep
the light from the street.

The two officials, after a glance about the room, returned to the hall.
Harvey tried the door of each office, then returned to Mattison and
Mallory. While they stood whispering,--for at night sound travels
through an empty building,--there came the sound of a window sliding in
its sash, apparently from the Treasurer's office.

Mallory paused to listen, then coolly turned and continued the
conversation.

“What was that?” muttered Harvey.

The lieutenant affected not to hear the remark.

“Some one is getting into the building,” Harvey whispered. Mattison
stepped lightly across the hall and, bending down, listened at the
keyhole. He returned with an excited gesture.

“Don't you hear it?” he asked.

“No,” said Mallory. “I don't hear anything.”

“Are you deaf, man?”

“No, but I think I know when to hear.”

It occurred to Harvey that Jim had done his work well. But then, Jim's
orders, however brief, were always understood. Harvey motioned the
others to be silent, and tiptoed across the floor. He listened as
Mattison had done, then passed on to the President's door. Cautiously he
drew a bunch of keys from his pocket, and feeling for the right one
he slipped it into the lock, threw open the door, and darted into the
office. Mattison and the detective followed, stumbling over chairs,
and colliding with the door to the inner office, which had closed after
Harvey. In the dim light they could see two figures struggling in the
passage by the vault. While Mattison sprang forward, Mallory quickly
lighted the gas.

The light showed that Harvey had crowded the fellow up against the vault
door. The newcomer was a medium-sized man, rough-faced, and poorly clad.
On the floor was a small leather grip, which evidently had been kicked
over in the scuffle, for part of a burglar's kit was scattered about the
passage.

Mallory jerked the man's wrists together, slipped on the handcuffs, and
led him out into the hall. In a moment the detective returned.

“I left him with the boys, for the present. Case of common
safe-cracking.”

“Do you think so?” said Harvey, adjusting his cuffs, and moving the
strange tools with his foot. “If he wanted money, I should think he
would have tackled the vault downstairs.”

Mallory stooped, and replaced the kit in the bag. Suddenly he said,--

“Raise your foot, Mr. West.”

Harvey did so, and the detective arose with a dirty paper in his hand.
He looked it over, and handed it to the others. It was a rough pencil
sketch of the station building, showing the alley, the window, the
Treasurer's office, and the vault.

“What do you think of it?” asked Mallory.

Harvey turned it over. A second glance showed it to be the front of an
envelope, for part of an end flap remained. The upper left-hand corner
had been torn off, evidently to remove the return card, but so hastily
that a part of the card remained. Straightening it out, and holding it
up to the light, Harvey read:--

  ----esleigh,
  ----ster, Illinois.

Mallory looked over his shoulder, and exclaimed:--

“That's easy. Hotel Blakesleigh, Manchester, Illinois.”

“How does that help you?” asked Mattison.

Harvey lowered the paper.

“Don't you see,” he replied. “There are two good hotels here, the
Illinois and the Blakesleigh. McNally is not at the Illinois.” He turned
to the detective. “You'd better let the fellow go, Mallory.”

“Why?”

“Because it is the easiest way to handle it. Keep the tools, though.”

“But I don't understand, Mr. West.”

“Well, there is no use in discussing it. We won't prefer charges.”

“But the man was caught in the act.”

“He didn't get any thing, poor devil. No; we're after bigger game than
this. We have enough for evidence. And don't sweat him.”

“This is too deep for me, Mr. West. Surely there's no harm in
questioning him, now that I've got him.”

“Can't help it, Mallory. When that man reports to his employer, I want
him to say that we suspect nothing beyond his attempt to crack the
safe.”

The detective turned away with a frown.

“I suppose you know your business, Mr. West.”

Harvey and Mattison followed him to the hall, closing the door after
them. They said good night, and left the building.

“See here, West,” said Mattison, when they were fairly around the
corner, “wasn't that a little hasty? It wouldn't hurt to keep the man
out of the way.”

“No, I don't agree with you. What McNally has done so far will be upheld
by his judge. And another thing, Mattison; just at present, it isn't to
our interest to get an investigation under way. We're going to do the
same thing ourselves.”

Slowly and cautiously they slipped around the next square, and, by
returning through the alley, brought up in the shadow of a building,
across the street from the train shed. Here they waited to reconnoitre.
The night was clear, and the arc-lamp at the corner threw an
intermittent glare down the street. As they looked, a long shadow
appeared on the sidewalk. Mattison gripped Harvey's arm, and drew him
back into the alley. They crouched behind a pile of boxes.

“It's like stealing apples,” whispered Harvey. “When the old man gets
after you with a stick.”

“Ssh!”

The footsteps sounded loud on the stone walk. Then a helmeted figure
passed the alley, and went on its way.

Waiting until the sound died in the distance, the two stepped to the
walk, looked hastily toward each corner, and ran across the street. Once
in the station alley, they paused again.

“Look!” said Harvey, pointing; “he left the ladder.”

Sure enough, a light ladder reached from the ground nearly to a
second-story window, which stood open.

“Well, here we are,” Mattison whispered. “How do you feel?”

“First-class. Better let me go,--I know the combination.”

Mattison stood at the foot of the ladder, and steadied it while Harvey
stealthily climbed to the window. Drawing himself into the passage, the
receiver set to work on the vault lock. He turned the knob very slowly,
guarding against the slightest noise, but the faint light that came
through the window was not enough to bring out the numbers. Harvey
leaned back and considered. The scratching of a match would almost
surely be heard by the detectives. He leaned out the window, and
beckoned. Mattison came creeping up, and Harvey explained in a few
whispered sentences. “Go back and look up the street,” he concluded.
“We've got to light it outside the building.”

While Mattison was gone, Harvey felt his way through the Treasurer's
office and paused to listen; then he drew up a chair which stood near
the door, and climbing up, slipped off his coat and hung it over
the half-open transom. Then he closed the transom, and the room was
practically light proof. With the same caution he reached the floor,
and tiptoed back to the window, where he found Mattison waiting on the
ladder.

“All right,” whispered the Superintendent. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Mattison struck a match on his trousers leg, shielded it with his hands,
then handed it to Harvey, who kneeled at the door and began to whirl the
knob. Before he was through the light was close to his fingers, and he
held another match to the flame, taking care to light the wrong end. At
last the lock clicked, and Harvey opened the door a few inches, then
he whispered to Mattison, “If I whistle, you get down and I'll drop the
books.”

He swung the door open, but stopped bewildered. Before him was the steel
gate with the clanging bell. However, the risk must be run, so motioning
Mattison to climb down he drew out his keys, and with a match ready in
his hand he jerked the gate open and dashed into the vault. Striking
the match, he quickly located the books he needed, carried them to the
window and pitched them out. Then he heard a thud on the door. He threw
one leg over the sill, but stopped--his coat was still on the transom.
Some one was struggling to break in the door now, for it shook. Harvey
sprang back, mounted the chair, and tore down his coat, tumbling to the
floor, chair and all, with a clatter. A voice shouted, “Open the door,
or I'll shoot!” but Harvey gave no heed. He ran to the window and
literally fell down the ladder, filling his hands with slivers. There
came a crash from above, and a muttered oath, and Harvey knew that the
door had given way. He gave the ladder a shove, and as it fell upon the
cobblestones with a great noise, he turned and sped up the alley after a
dark figure that was already near to the corner.

He caught up with Mattison in the next block, and relieved him of half
the load. Then for a long time they ran and doubled, fugitives from
half a dozen detectives and a few lumbering policemen. At last Mattison
turned up a dark alley in the residence district. Coming to a board
fence, he threw the books over, then climbed after. Harvey followed, and
found himself on a tennis court. Mattison led the way through the yard,
past a dark house, and across the street to a roomy frame residence.

“Come in with me,” he said to Harvey. “You can't go back to the hotel
now.”

Harvey laughed nervously and nodded. Mattison opened the door with his
night key, and with the heavy books in their arms the two burglars stole
up to bed.




CHAPTER XI


A POLITICIAN

Any man whose interests are extensive and diverse has sooner or later to
master the art of making other men work for him, and he must be content
to trust the management of a great part of his affairs to other hands.
Jim Weeks loved to keep a grasp even on the comparatively insignificant
details of his business, but he showed wonderful insight in the
selection of his lieutenants, and he could impart such momentum to his
projects that they moved forward as he meant them to, though his own
hand was not guiding them. Like other men accustomed to giving orders,
he took it for granted that his directions would be carried out.

Bridge, the Tillman City alderman to whom he had intrusted the task of
watching Blaney, had worked for Jim long enough to know that this affair
was in his own hands, and that something more than obedience and zeal
was expected of him. Though Jim's words had been brief, it was easy to
see that the matter was important; important enough to give Bridge
a great opportunity. He wanted to make the most of it, and, in the
excitement of laying his plans, the design for the stable was forgotten.

As the day wore on and his scheme crystallized, he fluctuated between a
sort of exalted confidence and the depths of nervous depression. He was
naturally a steady, humdrum sort of man, but he was planning to do an
audacious thing. His chance had come, and he meant to take it. At last,
just before supper time, he resolutely locked his office, and started
out to see Blaney. He hesitated a second or two before the contractor's
house; then he ran up the steps and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a little girl, who peered up at him through the
dusk with a child's curiosity. Bridge knew her, but he was of that kind
of bachelors who are embarrassed in the presence of children.

“Good evening, Louise,” he said. “Is your father home?”

“No, sir, he isn't,” she answered.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then he stammered,--

“Well--good night.” He bent down and gravely shook hands with her, and
turned to go down the steps, but at that moment Blaney himself appeared.

“How are you?” he said. “Did you want to see me?”

“If you've got the time,” said Bridge.

Blaney led the way into the house, and motioned Bridge to a seat in the
parlor. He himself paused in the hall to swing Louise up to his shoulder
and down again.

“What's the matter with you to-night?” he asked. “You don't seem to want
to play. Are you sick?”

“A little,” answered the child. “I'm kind of tired, and my head hurts.”

He ran his thick hand through her red curls, and looked at her anxiously
for a moment. Then he followed Bridge into the parlor.

“What can I do for you, Bridge?” he asked gruffly.

Bridge hesitated a moment; then he said, “Jim Weeks was in town this
morning.”

Blaney looked up sharply, and asked, “Did you see him?”

“Yes,” answered the other. “That is, he came down to see me. You know
the M. & T. election is coming pretty soon now, and he got the idea that
our stock was going to be voted against him. He wanted me to fix it up
so things would go his way in the Council, and I told him that I'd do
what I could. I came around to you to see if your crowd were going to do
anything about it.”

The coolness of the inquiry almost stupefied Blaney, but he managed to
speak.

“I'd like to know,” he said, “what business that is of yours, anyway.”

“It's my business, right enough,” said Bridge, easily. “I could ask the
same question in Council meeting, but I thought it was best to talk
it over with you quietly. There isn't any good in trying to fight Jim
Weeks, and I should think you'd know it. If ever a man had a cinch--”

“What are you up to, anyhow?” demanded Blaney, now thoroughly
exasperated. “Did you come around here to try to bulldoze me? Well, I'll
just tell you you may as well save your breath. Do you understand that?
Weeks thinks he can come his old bluff down here, but he's going to get
fooled just once. We've got the backing that'll beat him. That's all
I've got to say to you.”

“Well, I've got a little more to say to you,” said Bridge. “I came
around here on my own hook to find out whether you were just making your
regular bluff or whether you meant to fight, and I've found out. And
now I'm going to give you your choice. I'll either give you the hottest
scrap you ever had, and make what I can out of Weeks by it, or I'll go
in with you so you can get your deal through quietly. You can take your
choice.”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“I mean just this. That if there's any possible show of kicking that
damned bully out of here so that he'll never come back, I'd like to be
in it. And I guess my services would be valuable.”

“Look here,” demanded Blaney, sharply. “What have you got against
Weeks?”

“What have I got against him?” repeated Bridge. His face was flushed and
his shining eyes and clenched hands testified to his excitement. “Hasn't
he made me pull his hot chestnuts off the fire for the last two years?
Hasn't he held me up and made me pay a good rake-off from every deal
I've been lucky enough to make a little on? And hasn't he loaned me
money until I don't dare sign my own name without asking him if I can
do it, and--” He stopped as though knowing he had gone too far; then he
laughed nervously. “It's all right what I've got against him; that's my
business, I guess, but--”

Again the unfinished sentence was eloquent.

This time it was Blaney who broke the silence. “I guess,” he said
cautiously, “that if you want to tip Weeks over, you'll find there'll be
some to help you.”

Bridge laughed bitterly. “There are plenty who'd be glad enough to do it
if they could. He's had his grip on all of us long enough for that; but
I'm afraid it's no good. We can't beat him. He's got us in a vise.”

“I don't know about that,” said Blaney.

“Why, man,” exclaimed the other, “what can we do? And if we try to buck
him and get left, he'll squeeze the life out of us. You know that.”

Blaney did know that, and Bridge's words brought certain unpleasant
consequences plainly before his mind. All the while Bridge was talking
Blaney had been trying to find out what his motive was. He had always
believed that Bridge was hand and glove with Weeks, and at the
beginning he had suspected a trap. But what Bridge had said was entirely
plausible; he had given himself away without reserve, and had frankly
confessed that Weeks had been driving him. Bridge would be a valuable
ally in the scheme Blaney wanted to put through. Jim was popular in
Tillman, and if he were to be sold out to a corporation like C. & S.C.,
it would, as Bridge had hinted, be well for all parties concerned in the
transfer that it should be accomplished as quietly as possible. Bridge
was at the head of a compact and determined minority, and if he opposed
the deal, he could make matters very uncomfortable for Blaney and his
henchmen. But with Bridge on his side the field was clear and there
could be no doubt as to the success of the scheme. The one thing that
troubled Blaney was that Bridge might demand money; but there was no
need of facing that issue yet, for Bridge had apparently not thought of
it. “He's just getting even for something,” thought Blaney.

There was a long silence, which Blaney broke at last.

“We don't have to buck him all by ourselves,” he said. “We're well
backed. C. & S.C. are behind us. Are you with us?”

Bridge answered him steadily. “I've been waiting for a chance like this
for a year,” he said. “You can count me in for all I'm worth.”

He rose to go and held out his hand to Blaney. “Good night,” he said,
“and good luck to us.”

“So long,” was the answer. “I'll come around in a day or two, and we can
arrange details.”

The interview had been a hard one for Bridge, and it left him weak and
nervous. When he sat down to supper at his boarding-house table that
evening he had no appetite. He went to bed early, but he did not sleep
well, and the next morning found him exhausted by the interminable hours
of dozing, uneasy half-consciousness. He spent the next day in hoping
that Blaney would come, though he had no reason for expecting him so
soon, and by night he was in worse condition than ever. He would
have gone again to see Blaney had he dared, but he felt that such a
proceeding would imperil the whole affair; he must wait for Blaney to
make the next move.

Day followed day with no variation save that Bridge found the delay
more and more nearly unbearable, and the week had dragged to an end and
another begun before anything happened. On Sunday afternoon he started
out for a walk, but he had not gone far when he met Blaney. To his
surprise, the contractor looked as though the past week had been as hard
for him as it had been for Bridge. His face looked thin and his eyes
sunken and there were bristling uneven patches of sandy beard on his
face. When he came up to Bridge he stopped.

“I suppose you've been looking for me,” he said. “I've been staying
right at home taking care of my kid; she's had the scarlet fever.”

“Louise?” asked Bridge, with real concern. “I hope she's better.”

“I guess she'll pull through all right now,” answered Blaney, “but she's
been pretty sick, and it's kept me busy night and day. You see my wife
can't do much at nursing. But I tell you scarlet fever is no joke.”

“I never had it,” was the answer, “but I'm glad it's come out all right.
By the way,” he went on, as Blaney started to walk away, “when will you
be able to talk over that business with me?”

“Why, now as well as at any time, I suppose,” said Blaney, after a
moment's hesitation.

The contractor had an office near by, and at his suggestion they went
there for their conference.

“How many men can you count?” he asked when they were seated.

Now that the period of forced inaction was over, and there was something
important to do, Bridge forgot that his head was burning and his
throat dry, and for the first time in three days he was able to think
consecutively. For half an hour they figured their united strength and
talked over the individual members of the Council. But at last Bridge
said:--

“Before we go any further, I want to know more about this business. I've
taken your word so far that we would be backed up all right, and I hope
we are. But I can't afford to be beaten, and if Weeks isn't clean busted
up, he'll hound me to death. I've got to know more about this business.”

Blaney looked out of the window. “Seems to me you're pretty late with
that talk about not going in,” he said.

“I know I've committed myself to some extent without knowing just what
I was getting into,” answered Bridge, “but I won't go any farther till
some things are cleared up.”

“What do you want to know?” asked Blaney.

“I want to know what you're going to do. Voting that stock against Weeks
won't do any good. We can't get him out all by ourselves.”

“We aren't all by ourselves. C. & S.C. are with us.”

“That's what I'm trying to get at. To what extent are they with us?”

Blaney hesitated. It had not been a part of his plan to tell of the
prospective sale of the stock. He had meant to have the Council direct
the voting of the stock for C. & S.C. faction, and then when they had
committed themselves by this act, to urge upon them the necessity of
selling out and to tempt them with the offer of par. But a glance at
Bridge's set face convinced him that the new ally meant what he said,
and he knew too much already for the safety of the scheme unless he were
furthering it.

“They're with us to this extent,” said Blaney, slowly. “They're going to
buy our stock.”

“That's all rot,” said Bridge. “We can't sell. M. & T.'s a good
investment now, and it's getting better every day.”

“Wait till I get through,” interrupted Blaney, bent now on making an
impression. “Don't you think the Council would vote to sell at par?”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“C. & S.C. are going to pay par, that's all.”

Bridge looked at him incredulously. “Then we're to vote the stock as
they dictate, just on the strength of their telling us they'll pay par
for it afterward. I'm afraid it'll be a long time afterward. How do you
know they aren't playing us for suckers?”

“How do we know?” repeated Blaney. “I'm not quite as green as you think.
I know because I've got it down in black and white. They can't get
around a contract like that.”

Unlocking a drawer in his desk, he drew out a sheet of paper which he
thrust into Bridge's hands. “Read it,” he said.

Bridge read it through once and then again; it was briefly worded, and
he had no difficulty in remembering it. As he laid the paper down he was
conscious of a violent throbbing in his head, and he shivered as though
an icy breeze had blown upon him. He rose uncertainly from his chair and
moved toward the door.

“What's the matter?” demanded Blaney. “Where are you going?”

“I don't feel very well,” said Bridge. “I think I'll go home and go to
bed.”

When he reached the foot of the stairs, however, he turned not toward
his room, but toward the railway station; for in his mind there was a
confused purpose of going to Chicago immediately and telling Jim Weeks
exactly what he had found out.

Scarlet fever is not ordinarily a man's disease, but it had fallen upon
Bridge. He had exposed himself to it on the evening when he went to
Blaney's house to make the preliminary move in his game; and now after
the five days of tense inaction it attacked him furiously.

He was in a raging fever when he left Blaney's office, but he did not
realize it, borne up as he was by the excitement of winning. There could
be no doubt that he had done as good a stroke of work for himself as for
Jim Weeks, for Jim was not the man to let the merit of his lieutenants
go unrecognized. He felt sure that Jim would win the fight, even with C.
& S.C. against him, and though he had not recognized the worthlessness
of the contract Blaney held, he was confident that Jim could use his
knowledge of the existence of such a contract with telling effect.

As he walked on, the exhilaration of his triumph died out of him, and
his steps faltered and his sight became untrustworthy. He realized that
he was not fit for travelling, and reluctantly he turned back to his
room. He was a long time in reaching it, and when he staggered in and
dropped into an easy-chair he knew that he was a very sick man. With a
foreboding of the delirium that was coming upon him he gathered himself
together for a final effort and scrawled a copy of the contract upon a
slip of paper. With shaking hands he folded it and crammed it into an
inner pocket; then he rose and moved slowly toward the bed. He fell
twice in the short distance, but he kept on, and his head sank back in
the pillows before consciousness forsook him.




CHAPTER XII


KATHERINE

As Katherine drove home alone on Sunday morning she was troubled. In
aiding Harvey to catch the train for Manchester she had acted upon the
veriest impulse, and Katherine liked to imagine herself a very cool and
self-possessed young woman. Slowly it dawned upon her that by helping
Harvey she had set her hand against her own father. In an impersonal way
she had realized this, but Harvey's presence had filled her thoughts,
and she had not allowed herself time to consider. And now that the
cooler afterthoughts had come she was almost as indignant with herself
for showing such open interest in Harvey as for hurting her father's
cause. Then she grew startled to realize that even in her thoughts she
was placing this man before her father. Harvey was not a fool. He would
see that she had been disloyal, and he would cease to respect her. She
wondered if she was disloyal.

On reaching home she hurried to her room and sat down by the open
window, looking out over the lawn that sloped down to the road. Harvey
would think her weak, and would feel that he could sway her from her
strongest duty.

The day was bright. Far in the distance she could see a bend of the
river. There was no sound, no life; the rolling country stretched away
in idle waves, the checkered farms lay quiet in the sun, over all was
the calm of a country Sunday. Her eyes wandered and she closed them,
resting her fingers on the lids. Life was serious to Katherine. Since
her early teens she had lived without a mother, and the result of
her forced independence was a pronounced and early womanhood. She had
learned her lessons from experience and had learned them with double
force. She had never been in love, and save for a very few youthful
flutterings had never given the idea a concrete form; and now that she
should manifest such weakness before Harvey partly alarmed her. She
suspected that he loved her, but would not permit herself to return it.
She knew too little about him, and, besides, her first duty was with
her father. She had yielded to impulse, but it was not too late to
reconsider. She had aided the enemy by a positive act; she would do as
much for her father. With firm eyes she rose and went downstairs, fully
decided to investigate the matter until she could discover a means of
throwing her energy against Weeks and Harvey.

During the next two days her determination grew. Mr. Porter was in
Chicago and Manchester, and was not expected home immediately, so
Katherine had plenty of time for thinking. She drove a great deal, went
around the links every morning, and tried to read. It did not occur to
her that her effort was not so much to side with her duty as to
crowd down the thoughts of Harvey that would steal into her mind. She
permitted herself no leeway in the matter, but kept resolutely to her
decision.

Tuesday afternoon she drove until quite late, and returning found her
father and McNally awaiting dinner. Although she was quicker than
usual in her efforts to entertain their guest, the meal was hurried
and uncomfortable. When in repose McNally's face was clouded, and the
occasional spells of interest into which he somewhat studiously aroused
himself could not conceal his general inattention. Her father, too, was
preoccupied, and was so abrupt in his conversation as to leave small
trace of the easy lightness of manner that Katherine had always known.

After dinner Katherine excused herself, and stepped out through the long
window that opened on the veranda. Evidently a crisis had come, and
she wished that an opportunity would arise through which she might join
their discussion. Just outside of the library window she sat down on a
steamer chair and gazed up at the dark masses of the trees, the thinning
tops of which were at once darkened and relieved by the last red of the
western sky.

“Yes, Porter, they kicked me out. My men and I made a stiff fight for
it, but they outnumbered us.”

At the sound of McNally's voice Katherine started guiltily. It had not
occurred to her that the matter would be discussed downstairs; usually
her father's private conversations were held in his den on the second
floor. She wondered whether she ought to make herself known.

Then she heard McNally again, answering a low-spoken question from her
father.

“He was a good man, or perhaps you would call him a bad one. He was
just getting down to work on the vault door when West and his gang of
Pinkertons broke in on him and nailed him.”

Another question from Porter.

“No, Porter, they are on to us now. You see, the books are gone, and
there's no use in trying to get hold of that end of the road; but we can
seize it from this end and get everything except their building.”

With cheeks burning and with conscience troubling, Katherine rose and
stood before the window.

“I didn't intend to put myself in your way,” she said, laughing
nervously, “but I couldn't help hearing.”

Looking in through the dim light Katherine thought she saw McNally
start. After a brief but embarrassing pause Porter spoke, using the tone
Katherine associated with the stern but kindly rebukes of her childhood.

“Did you hear all we said, Katherine?”

“Most of it, I'm afraid.”

“You understand, dear, that this is very confidential business?”

“Yes, dad.” With an impulsive start Katherine seated herself on the low
sill of the window and clasped her hands in her lap. “I wish you would
let me talk it over with you. You know I am interested in your affairs,
dad. And,” hesitatingly, “maybe I can help you.”

For a space all three were silent. Katherine was leaning back in a pose
that brought out all her unconscious beauty. The waning light fell full
upon her, and the sunset seemed to be faintly reflected in her face. Her
hair was coiled above her forehead in easy disorder.

McNally, sitting back in the shadow, looked fixedly at her, and as he
looked it seemed to him that her beauty spiced the atmosphere. He found
himself drawing in his breath keenly and almost audibly, and gripping
the arms of the easy-chair: with a sudden half-amused feeling of
boyishness he relaxed his grip and leaned back comfortably. It was
some time since the introspective Mr. McNally had found it necessary to
reprove himself for such a slip of demeanor.

“I couldn't help seeing what was going on,” continued Katherine. “And
you told me the other day that I had helped you some.” She turned
appealingly toward her father, who sat with head lowered, scowling at
the carpet. McNally broke the pause.

“There is very little we can tell you, Miss Katherine. A business matter
of this importance is too complicated for any one who has not grown up
with the problems. It would involve the history of two railroads for
years back.”

“Why is it,” asked Katherine, earnestly, “that a man never credits a
woman with common sense? I am not blind. I know that the M. & T. is a
feeder to C. & S.C., that it supplies us with coal, and that we could
earn and save money by making it a part of our system. Mr. Weeks is
fighting us for some reason, and we are planning to force the question.
Isn't that so?”

“Where did you learn this, Katherine?” asked her father.

“From no one particular source. You have told me a great deal yourself,
dad.”

“The question is, Miss Katherine,” McNally said, “what good could you
possibly do? Without implying any doubt of your ability, you see our
course is already mapped out for us by circumstances. In fact, there
is only one way open that leads to a logical outcome. If we were in a
position where we needed tactful advice, you could undoubtedly be of
help, but just now what we want is a force of strong, aggressive men.”

“Mr. McNally is right, dear,” said Porter. “Everything is decided, and
all we can do is to tend to business. This Weeks is following rather a
dishonorable course, and we are prepared to meet him; that is all.”

Katherine leaned forward and twisted the curtain string around her
finger.

“Is he really dishonest?” she asked.

“Well, dear, that is a hard question. No man has a right to condemn
another without careful deliberation; but it happens that many business
dealings savor a little of underhand methods, and it looks to us as
though Mr. Weeks were not over particular.”

“What has he done?”

“Well, you see, dear--”

Katherine broke in with unusual warmth. “Oh, I know what you are going
to say. Some more complications that I couldn't understand. Why won't
you tell me?”

Porter arose.

“We'll talk this over at some other time, Katherine. I have an
appointment with Judge Black for this evening, but I will be back before
long.” He added to McNally, “He came in on the 8.25. I'll leave you with
Katherine.”

When he had gone there was a silence. Katherine felt that her father's
absence should alter the tone of the conversation, but she waited for
McNally to take the initiative.

“What a glorious night,” he said at length, rising and coming to the
window. “Did you ever see such a lingering afterglow? Suppose we sit
outside.”

Katherine rose and made room for McNally to step through the open
window. Together they walked across the veranda, McNally seating himself
on the railing, Katherine leaning against one of the stone columns.

“How long have you been ambitious to be a business woman, Miss
Katherine?”

“I hardly wish that. Only I like to share father's interests.”

“Do you know, I like it. I like to see a woman show an independent
interest in important affairs. Nowadays not only young girls but women
of position seem to care for nothing but the frivolous. I don't know but
what our pioneer ancestors got more out of life, when the woman and her
husband worked side by side.”

“Will you tell me about the M. & T. business, Mr. McNally?”

“I hardly feel that I can, Miss Katherine. To my mind that rests with
your father.”

“Probably it does, but father still thinks me a child. He thinks I
cannot grasp the situation.”

“Even if I felt at liberty to discuss it, I don't know what I could tell
you beyond a mere recital of dry detail. Personally, I should like to do
so, Miss Katherine; I honestly admire your independence, and I believe
that you might even be able to suggest some helpful ideas, but business
does not concern itself with the personal equation.”

Katherine looked thoughtfully at McNally's shadowed face. She was a
little surprised with herself that she should so persist, but it did
not occur to her to stop. Deep behind her desire to be honest with her
father was a desire to prove that Harvey was, after all, in the right.
She did not recognize this, she did not even know it, but Harvey's
personality had taken on hers a vital grip that was as yet too strong,
too firm, too close at hand to be realized. As for McNally, his
intention to evade was too evident to be overlooked. He was dodging
at every turn, and it was becoming clear to her that he was concealing
facts which it would not do to disclose. And this suggested that her
father was doing the same. The bit of conversation she had overheard
came back to her, and as she thought it over it sounded odder than when
she had first heard it. Why should her father wish to seize the road? If
it belonged to Mr. Weeks, and if he did not care to sell, what right had
her father or any one else to take it by force? She had been looking
out over the lawn, but now she turned and fixed her eyes intently on
McNally's plump, smooth-shaven face. He was looking toward her, but
seemed not to see her. Instead there was the shadow of a smile in his
eyes which suggested air-castles.

“Mr. McNally,” she said abruptly, “if we want the M. & T. road, why
don't we buy it and pay for it?”

McNally started. During the long silence he had been feasting on
Katherine's beauty. He was not a young man, but as he gazed at the
earnest young face before him, and at the masses of shining hair,
half in shadow, half in light, he felt a sudden loneliness, a sudden
realization of what such a woman could be to him, what an influence she
might have upon his life. And losing for the moment the self-poise that
was his proudest accomplishment, Mr. McNally stammered.

“Oh,” he said, “we couldn't--it wouldn't do--”

From the change in every line of Katherine's pose he knew that he had
said enough. She had turned half away from him and was standing rigid,
looking out into the night. Glancing at her dimly outlined profile,
McNally could see that her lips were pressed closely together. He pulled
himself together and stood up.

“Why not go in and have some music?” he asked. “This conversation is too
serious for such an evening.”

Katherine bowed and led the way into the house. As they passed through
the library toward the piano she paused to turn the electric-light
key. With the flood of light Katherine's ease returned, and she laughed
lightly as she pointed to a gaudily decorated sheet of music on the
piano.

“Shocking, isn't it?” she said. “That's the kind of music we play down
here in the country. We need your influence to keep us from degenerating
musically. Play me something good.”

McNally glanced at her with a laugh.

“Coon songs, eh?” he replied. “Well, some of them aren't so bad.” He sat
down at the instrument and let his hands slip over the keys. Katherine
sank upon the broad couch in the corner. She was apparently her old
self, friendly and interested in Mr. McNally and his music, but there
was nevertheless a distinct change. McNally felt the difference and
tried to throw it off, but the force of the situation grew upon him.
Slowly he realized that in spite of her pretensions she was not really
in sympathy either with him or with her father. He struck into a Liszt
rhapsody with all the fervor he could muster.

McNally was a good musician. He possessed the power, lacking in many
better pianists, of using music as a medium to connect his own and his
listener's moods; but to-night he fell short, and he knew it. He stole a
glance at Katherine. She looked exactly as usual, but still there was
a difference that baffled him. He threw all his art into the music. He
labored to color it with sincerity and strength. But all the while he
knew that the ground was lost. What he did not know was that Katherine
was passing through a crisis, and that her thoughts were miles away from
him and his rhapsody. He ended with unusual brilliancy, and she smiled
with pleasure and thanked him simply, but still he felt the change.
Then Porter came in, and after a brief general conversation Katherine
withdrew.

She did not go at once to her room. Instead, she slipped out on the
little second-floor balcony and sat down to be alone and to think. She
had made an honest effort to throw her interest with her father and with
what she believed to be her duty, and now that the evening was gone she
had nothing to show for it. For a very few moments she wondered at it
all, and at the fate which seemed to draw her toward Harvey. Then, as
the thought of him again took concrete form, and as the last two days
with him came back to her mind, her whole heart went out to him, and
she was startled, frightened at the strength of his hold upon her. For
a moment she gave herself up to dreams, dreams of a better, sweeter
existence than any she had dared to imagine, then came the thought of
her father, and Katherine broke down.

Downstairs, McNally and Porter sat for a long time with only a desultory
conversation. Then McNally said,--

“Porter, I envy you a daughter like that.”

“She is a good girl,” Porter replied.




CHAPTER XIII


TRAIN NO. 14

The fight for the possession of the Manchester and Truesdale Railroad
divides itself naturally into two acts. During the first week, while it
would be absurd to say that the acts of either side were legal, all the
proceedings had worn the cloak of law. But now matters had come to a
deadlock. Judge Grey was both able and willing to undo any or all of the
acts of Judge Black, and conversely. The last event of the first act was
the attempt on Tuesday morning of the C. & S.C. people, armed with writs
from Black, to seize the books of the company. They were courteously
received and the vaults were thrown open to their inspection; but as the
books had been spirited away the night before, the search was fruitless.
Porter and McNally had been beaten at their own game, and they withdrew
their forces to Truesdale. The fight was to be kept up on other lines.

Wednesday morning, No. 7 on the C. & S.C. brought down a much larger
number of passengers for Truesdale than ordinarily came on that train.
They climbed down to the station platform from different cars, and
regarded each other with studied indifference, but there was something
homogeneous about the crowd that drew upon it the frankest stares of
the station loafers. There were no women or children among them, they
carried no baggage, and there was an air about them, carefully repressed
but still discernible, which suggested that if any one were looking for
trouble they were the men to whom to apply. They seemed to be trying to
attract as little attention as possible, but they were followed by
many curious glances, as they straggled in a long irregular line up the
street toward the Truesdale Hotel.

Katherine had driven into town that morning, and from her high trap she
watched the spectacle with amused interest. Seeing McNally coming out
of the hotel office she pulled up her horses and nodded to him with a
peremptory cordiality which left him no escape from coming to speak to
her.

“So war is declared,” she said laughingly, nodding toward the rear guard
who were disappearing in the hotel entrance. “I see you are massing your
troops. Is that the entire army, or only a division?”

McNally tried to utter a protest, but she went on unheeding. “I think
they're too absurdly comical for words. They try so hard to look as if
they weren't spoiling for a fight.”

“Miss Porter,” said McNally, seriously, “your father's interests are at
stake now and we must be discreet.”

“I suppose so,” she said; “but really those men are irresistibly funny.”

She gathered up the reins and the horses started, but as they moved away
she turned and called back to him,--

“Be sure and come out to luncheon--that is, if you don't go to the
front.”

The words troubled McNally. Only two days before he had been dragged
out of his hiding-place in the Manchester station and kicked downstairs.
This experience still occupied a large place in his thoughts, and he
took Katherine's remark as a reflection on his personal courage. Though
he had no idea of “going to the front,” he decided not to go to the
Porters' for luncheon.

All that morning new people kept streaming into Truesdale. No. 22
brought in McDowell, a division superintendent on the C. & S.C. and
other less important employees of the same road came in on every train.
All over the city was the exciting premonition that something was going
to happen. The army, as Katherine had called it, was reenforced by two
fresh detachments brought in on the C. & S.C. from no one knew just
where, but they were carefully guarded from being too much in evidence,
and there was not the least disorder. When noon came and nothing had
happened the tension relaxed a little, and the town returned to its
accustomed quiet.

At the M. & T. station, however, the excitement increased, manifesting
itself in many ways. The trains came in and went out on their scheduled
time, and the routine work went on without variation, but there was a
nervous alertness evident everywhere. Train crews stood in little knots
about the platform and yards, speculating about the fight whose issue
meant much to each of them, but in which they had not as yet been able
to take a part. At one forty-five No. 14, which leaves Truesdale at two
o'clock for Tillman City, St. Johns, and Manchester, backed down to the
station to take on its passengers. Carse, the conductor, stood near the
cab talking to the engineer and the fireman, keeping all the while an
eye on the passengers.

“We're getting a big crowd to-day,” he observed. “That's McDowell of the
C. & S.C. getting in the rear coach there. He's a mean brute. Ain't you
glad we ain't under him, Downs?”

The engineer nodded emphatically, and climbing down from the cab, stood
beside the conductor. “Seems to me,” he said, “there are a lot of C. &
S.C. boys taking this train. I've spotted three or four already.”

“Say,” exclaimed Carse, “do you suppose they're going back to Manchester
to have another shot at the old man? I brought them back from there
yesterday on No. 5, and they were the sickest crowd you ever saw. The
old man can give them just about all they want.”

He paused and glanced at his watch. “We pull out in thirty seconds,” he
said. And at two o'clock No. 14 started northward on what was to prove
a most eventful run in the history of the M. & T. The train rattled over
the yard switches, slid creaking under the brakes down to the river,
rumbled across the bridge, and then toiled up the first of the long
grades between Truesdale and Sawyerville.

Carse was collecting tickets in the second car when suddenly it thrilled
and trembled, and the train, with grinding squealing brakes, came to a
stop. The conductor was all but thrown from his feet, but he staggered
to the platform, and leaping down ran toward the engine, followed by an
excited crowd of passengers.

“What's the matter?” he demanded of Downs, whom he found clambering out
of the cab.

“That's what I want to know,” answered the engineer. “Didn't you pull
the signal cord?”

“No,” said Carse, looking puzzled. “I wonder what's up.”

At that moment a man came forward from the group of passengers: it was
McDowell. “I signalled you to stop,” he said.

Carse waited an instant for him to go on, and then asked impatiently,
“Well, what's wrong?”

“Nothing that I know of,” said McDowell, easily. “I wanted the train to
stop.”

Carse stepped toward him angrily. “I don't know whether you're drunk
or not,” he said, “but that's a damned poor kind of a joke. You'll find
that out as soon as we get to Sawyerville.”

“Oh, no, I won't,” said McDowell. “I'm superintendent of this road, and
the first thing I'm going to do is to fire you. Haven,”--he called to
one of the group behind him,--“you can take this train to Manchester.”

Another man pushed into the circle. He was Stewart, the sheriff of
Evelyn County. “Mr. McDowell is quite right. Mr. Frederick McNally, the
receiver of the road, appointed him this morning. And I now serve on you
a writ from Judge Black--”

“See here,” interrupted Carse, “are you sheriff of Evelyn County or
of the whole United States? You'd better keep out of this; the county
line's about half a mile back.”

“We're wasting time,” said McDowell, shortly. “James and Mangan, take
the engine. We'll take charge of this train, sir, county or no county.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Carse, under his breath. Then shouting,
“Get away, boys; don't mind me,” he sprang upon McDowell, hitting out
swift and hard, and in a second the two men were clinched and rolling in
the sand. Downs took the hint and, leaping into the cab, let off the
air brake and seized the throttle, while Berg, his big fireman, wrenched
free from the two men who tried to hold him and rushed toward the cab.
For a moment it looked as though No. 14 was going to get away.

But the first detachment of Mr. McNally's army was not at hand for
nothing. Berg was pulled down from the step he had succeeded in
reaching, and a blow from behind stretched him unconscious beside the
track. Downs caught up the shovel which lay at his feet, and brought
it down hard on a man who was climbing over the tender; then without
turning he drove the handle squarely into the face of another who was
standing on the step and trying to clutch his legs. But the odds were
too great, and in a moment he was rushed back against the fire-box, and
his arms were pinioned fast. McDowell had been freed from his assailant
by two of his brawny supporters, and he rose to his feet with some
difficulty; the blood was streaming down his face, but he was quite
cool. Seeing that resistance was at an end, he called to the men in the
engine:--

“Let up on that man; we don't want to kill him. Bring him down here.”

A moment later, he said: “Put bracelets on all three of them and take
them into the smoker. Some of you stay around and see that they don't
do any more mischief.” Then turning to the men he had already ordered to
take charge of the train, he said: “All right, boys, let her go. We're
nearly ten minutes late.”

McNally's plans were well laid; so well laid that McDowell's mistake in
not stopping the train soon enough did not prevent their being carried
out successfully. The sheriff of Malden County had been told what was
expected of him, and he was waiting on the platform of the Sawyerville
station when No. 14 pulled in. There had been no warning, there was
no possibility of resistance, and everything moved as smoothly as
clockwork. The writs were served, the telegraph office seized, and the
M. & T. employees about the station replaced by McDowell's “boys” almost
before the dazed incumbents knew what was happening. The new telegraph
operator wired to McNally, who had already taken possession of the
Truesdale terminal, telling him briefly of the fight for the train and
the capture of Sawyerville. McNally sent back brief instructions for the
conduct of the rest of the raid. They were told to make no attempt
to keep schedule time, but to go slowly and cautiously, and to use as
little violence as possible. Altogether McDowell had reason to feel well
satisfied when he came out on the station platform ready to take his
train on its unique journey up the road.

There stood near him a number of passengers gathered in an excited
group, discussing the fight, the delay of the train, and the somewhat
remote chance of getting to Manchester. One of them, a very stout man
with deep-set, watery eyes and a florid complexion, recognized the
Superintendent and turned to him.

“Are we likely to have to wait as long as this at every station?” he
asked.

“I guess so,” answered McDowell, shortly.

“This is an outrage,” exclaimed the other, angrily. “I took this train
for the purpose of getting to Manchester.”

“You'd better get aboard then,” said McDowell. “We're going to start
now.”

His coolness exasperated the stout man, and he shouted after the
Superintendent, “I won't submit to this. I tell you, you'll be sorry for
it before I get through with you.”

McDowell paid no heed to the threat, and nodded Haven to go ahead; but a
young telegraph operator, whose services were to be required further up
the road, heard the words and shouted to the angry man:--

“If you don't want to take the train, there's probably a livery stable
here, or else you can go to the hotel. It's a gold cure, but I guess
they'd take you in.”

McDowell laughed and went into the car. He did not hear what his former
passenger answered, and he did not care. He would probably have been
less amused if he had known that the man was none other than State
Senator “Sporty” Jones. It does not pay to enrage any man wantonly,
and especially not a man who makes it his main principle in life to get
even. And as any of his circumspect associates could inform you, Senator
Sporty Jones was just such a man.

It was nearing six o'clock when No. 14 slowed down in the southern
outskirts of Tillman City. The army, though depleted, was jubilant, and
more than made up in _esprit du corps_ what it had lost in numbers. The
raid had so far been completely successful: all the stations had been
seized, and the south-bound trains they had met had been held up and
placed in charge of C. & S.C. employees. There had been no resistance
worth mentioning, and they had prevented any warning of their coming
from going up the line ahead of them. Tillman City was lying an
unsuspecting prey, though fairly in their clutches.

Bill Stevens, the agent at Tillman, knew that something had gone wrong,
for No. 14 was later than usual, and had not been reported from the last
two stations; so when the drooping semaphore told him that she was in
the block, he went out on the platform to find out what had happened. As
the train came panting up to the station he saw two strange men in the
cab instead of Downs and Berg, and this puzzled him more than ever.

The sheriff was the first man off the train; he walked straight up to
the agent, and in two minutes the formalities were over. Stevens and his
subordinates were discharged, and the ticket office and baggage room
put in charge of the new employees with a celerity born of practice.
A number of deputies under McDowell's orders scattered out to take
possession of the roundhouse, the freight depot, and the yards.

Still standing on the platform in an excited crowd of raiders, former
employees, and station loafers, was the agent. He was thinking fast,
for he saw the importance of getting word to Manchester of what was
happening along the line. The telegraph line was in the hands of the
enemy, but a locomotive--It was worth a trial, anyway. There were three
at Tillman: 33 that had just brought in No. 14, 7 on a siding waiting to
take the train to Manchester, and 10, the regular yard engine. The two
passenger engines were out of the question, for they were already well
guarded, but the little switching locomotive lay at the northern end
of the yard, and had not as yet been seized by the deputies. In the
confusion, and aided by the gathering dusk of the early October evening,
something might be done.

Glancing around, Stevens saw Murphy, the hostler, standing at his elbow.
Without turning toward him he spoke softly.

“Murphy,” he said, “slip out of this crowd and follow me. I'm going to
try to get away on 10. I want you to throw a switch for me.”

The hostler nodded without a word, and threaded his way after the agent
to the edge of the platform. Once out of the glare of the station lights
there was less need for caution, and the two men set out at a rapid walk
toward the north end of the yards.

Suddenly a deputy came out from behind a freight car and laid a
detaining hand on the agent's arm.

“What are you up to?” he demanded.

There was no word of reply, but Murphy's fist shot out, landing dully on
the man's jaw, and without an outcry he sank inert on the sand.

The agent darted forward, keeping out of the heavy sand by bounding
along the irregularly laid ties, and in a moment he was climbing into
the cab of the switch engine.

“Thank God! there's steam and water,” he thought, and throwing over the
reversing lever he grasped the throttle and came backing rapidly down
the siding.

It was too dark for the men at the station to see perfectly what had
happened, but they saw enough to excite their suspicion, and No. 33,
which had already uncoupled from the train, ran up the main track to
investigate. James and Mangan and a couple of deputies were in the cab.

Murphy had already thrown the switch and was standing beside it, holding
a coupling pin in his hand, awaiting developments. The two locomotives
were running right at each other, and unless somebody changed his mind
very promptly a collision was inevitable; but the agent was in such a
frame of mind that a smash-up was rather to his liking than otherwise,
and he pulled the throttle a little wider open. He would waste no steam
whistling, but grasping the hand rail he swung out from the cab and
waved his free arm.

“Look out!” he yelled, “I'm coming.”

Furthermore it was obvious to the men in 33 that he meant to keep on
coming, and as none of them had any wish to try conclusions, even with
little No. 10, the big locomotive stopped short and went backing down
the track, the deputies shouting to their comrades at the station for
reenforcements.

No. 10 slowed down as she backed on to the main track, and as Murphy
threw the switch she stopped and then moved forward. Stevens waited for
Murphy, who left the switch open and climbed into the cab. Then with a
clear track before her No. 10 went tearing down the long grade as fast
as her dumpy little drivers would carry her.

Halfway to Byron is a milk shed with a short siding, and when they
reached it Stevens shut down and stopped with a jerk.

“Get out,” he said to Murphy, “and throw over that switch and put out
the lamp.”

As they started on again he said dryly, “When they strike that, it may
teach 'em to go slow for the rest of the run.”

It was just six-seventeen by the station clock when Mason, the operator
at Byron, heard No. 10 coming in. He ran out on the platform, but
Stevens waved him back.

“Get in there,” he said as he dropped from the cab. “I want you to send
a message quick.”




CHAPTER XIV


A CAPTURE AT BRUSHINGHAM

On the same Wednesday morning Jawn Donohue was oiling the old switch
engine preparatory to making up a train of coal cars. Since his ride
with the President, Jawn had been even more silent than before. His
work had been done with the same gruff independence, and his fireman had
received the usual quota of stern rebukes; in fact, Jawn was outwardly
so like his old self that none suspected him of emotion, but Jawn knew
how thin was the veneer. It is hard upon a man to lose ground in the
great struggle. Conscious of his ability, proud in his experience, Jawn
grew daily more bitter at the prospect before him, and more hostile to
his superiors. For a few days after the ride he had hoped for some word;
he had felt that such an appeal as the one he had made to Jim Weeks
should be productive of some notice, if not of a definite result. But
as the week wore away, and no word came, his heart sank. Every day he
rattled the dumpy little engine about the division yards, chewing the
stem of his pipe, and hardening his heart against the world. He spent
Sunday in his room at the boarding-house, for he had no family. Monday
and Tuesday passed in worse than solitude, and when Wednesday morning
came, and with it a message from the division superintendent, Jawn, in
spite of his hopes, was taken by surprise. The message was addressed to
the agent, and was very brief:--

  Send J. Donohue and fireman to Manchester at once.

Jawn and his fireman took 16 for Manchester. Beyond a brief word Jawn
had said nothing, but his heart was disturbed. He was sure that it
couldn't mean discharge, for they would not call him north for that--a
word and a check would have settled it. It was hardly likely that one
of the passenger engineers was to be reduced in his favor; Jawn knew the
inside history of every man's connection with the road, and he could see
no reason for a change. No, as he worked it over and over in his mind
during the three-hour ride, he began to suspect that there was special
work to be done.

If Jawn had been present at the brief scene in Mattison's office that
morning, or if there had been a friend at court to tell him of it, he
would have been a happy man. For while Jim Weeks, aggressive as ever,
was organizing his forces for the defence of the road (Jim foresaw what
Porter's next move in the natural course of events would be), Mattison
had turned to the division superintendent, and said: “Who can you put
on the engine, if we have to come to rough work? The nerviest man
we've got.” And before the other could reply, Jim had turned from a
conversation with Harvey to say: “Donohue's got to take out that train.
He's on a switch engine at Tillman.”

Jim was continually surprising his subordinates with his intimate
knowledge of the details of management. Mattison had long been
accustomed to his ways, but he gave Jim a glance of wonder before he
repeated the order to the division chief. And so Jawn was called to
Manchester as the nerviest man on the road.

In the meantime a scene not unlike that at Truesdale was being enacted
in and about the Manchester station. There was the same reticence, and
the studied quiet and perfect discipline were even more pronounced; for
with Jim and Harvey to issue orders, and with Mattison and Mallory to
execute them, the chance of a slip or a misunderstanding was too slight
to be considered. A long train of tourist cars was made up shortly after
noon and backed into the train shed, where it lay awaiting orders. Jim
had no very definite idea of using it, at least until force was the only
expedient; but he had been through too many fights to be caught off
his guard. Instructions were wired from the despatcher's office to
the operators all along the line, ordering them to report promptly any
irregularity or suspicious circumstance. Meanwhile the regular trains
for Truesdale pulled out through the yards and went on their way.

When Jawn came into the Superintendent's office at two o'clock he found
a group of men standing in nervous attitudes, all evidently awaiting
orders. A boy stopped him and asked his business.

“I want to see Mr. Mattison,” said Jawn, removing his pipe and holding
it awkwardly: Jawn, though at home on an engine, was ill at ease in an
office.

“Can't see him,” snapped the boy; “he's busy.”

“He sent for me.”

“Name, please.”

“Donohue.”

“Sit down, Mr. Donohue.”

Jawn sat down in a corner and the boy disappeared. In a short time he
returned and led Jawn to Mattison's desk. Mattison wasted no time, but
told him the situation in a few sentences. “Now, Donohue,” he said,
in conclusion, “you understand, do you, that we are putting a big
responsibility on you? Mr. West will be in command, and you will be
subject to his orders without question; but if for any reason you should
have to act rapidly, or should be thrown on the defensive, I shall
expect you to do what is best for the road. Run no unnecessary risks,
but remember, we must hold the line at any cost--if we lose an engine
doing it. Do you understand?”

Jawn, standing beside the oak desk, looked down at the Superintendent
and nodded gravely. Mattison returned the look with a brief searching
gaze, then he turned to his work, saying, “Very well, you may go.”

Harvey was all over the station. The strain of the last two days had
told upon his nerves, but the prospect of a conflict buoyed him up.
He had a long talk with Mallory, in which a campaign was mapped out as
fully as was possible in the circumstances. It had been decided to hold
the men ready to board the train at a moment's notice; but Harvey, as
three o'clock came, ordered them aboard, for he realized that the longer
the delay the greater would be the need of prompt action. So the long
line filed out across the platform to the waiting cars, and the men made
themselves comfortable for a long wait. Mallory stationed two of his
own men in each car with orders to maintain strict discipline. In the
baggage car were stored extra chains, hawsers, coupling links, crowbars,
patent frogs, and every other device which, in Mattison's estimation,
could be used in case of extreme circumstances, and there were chairs
for Harvey and his lieutenants.

Later Harvey walked up to the engine, where Jawn and his fireman were
oiling and polishing.

“Everything all right, Donohue?” he asked.

Jawn growled and looked back at the coal in the tender.

“She ain't much of an engine,” he replied.

Harvey looked her over. She was an ordinary light yard engine with a
footboard in place of the pilot and with a sloping tank. He called to
the yard master who stood near.

“Haven't you got a better engine than this, Pratt?”

Pratt came across the platform.

“I understood you wanted an old one,” he said.

“We do,” replied Harvey; “but we want one that will hold a little water,
and one that can make time if necessary.”

“Shall I change, sir?”

“It rests with the engineer. Donohue, can you do anything with this
engine?”

Jawn leaned against the cab and slowly shook his head.

“Get another, then,” said Harvey, and as the change was effected Jawn's
heart was won. In an unreasoning way he promptly attributed his changed
condition to Harvey; for in spite of his gruff shell the kernel of
Jawn's nature was keenly susceptible to kindness, and to him a good
engine and plenty of authority was the greatest kindness in life.

For two hours the train waited. Then, at five o'clock, a detail was
sent into the restaurant, and the men were supplied with sandwiches and
coffee, eating without leaving their seats. In half an hour all were
fed, and they stretched out on the cane seats as comfortably as their
crowded condition permitted. The long wait did not improve tempers, and
it was a sullen, weary train load that counted the minutes on into the
dusk. Jawn sat on his high seat and dozed.

The suspense was even more tense in the offices on the second floor
of the station. Jim and Harvey spent most of the time in the private
office, going over every possible combination of circumstances, Jim
giving Harvey explicit directions for each case--when to use force, when
not, when to call on the law, and when to send for aid. Occasionally Jim
would call in Mattison to ask a question concerning some detail of the
road, or he would send for Mallory to explain more fully his directions.
It was plain that Jim desired to leave nothing to chance, now that the
real struggle was on, but to throw all his available resources into
the conflict. Mattison had a map drawn for Harvey, which showed every
station, curve, switch, and siding; this Harvey studied during the lulls
in the conversation, and as he already was familiar with all but the
minor details of construction, he soon had his information upon a
working basis. At six-fifteen Mattison came in.

“Mr. Weeks,” he said, “the despatcher reports something the matter. For
two or three hours, he says, the local reports have been confused and
unsatisfactory. A few minutes ago he called up Tillman City and hasn't
yet succeeded in getting any reply. The local men are sending in train
reports, but something isn't right. He's got a notion that they aren't
our old men.”

“Tell them to try again,” said Jim. “Ask them something a new man
wouldn't know.”

Mattison left the office and hurried to the stairway. On the landing he
met a newsboy who was running up, calling:--

“Shcago Even' Papers! Extry! All about big railroad war!”

Mattison seized a paper and glanced at the headings. “Fight for M. &
T.,” he read. “Trunk Line Gobbles Small Road.” His eye ran over the
article; it was dated that afternoon from Truesdale. He turned and ran
up the stairs, dashing into Jim's office and spreading the paper on the
table.

“It's up to us,” he said. “They've been at work all the afternoon.”

As he spoke a boy came running into the office.

“Message from Byron,

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/8385