The Short Line War

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:—

To which the despatcher replied:—

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:—

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:—

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.