The Short Line War

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:—

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:—

“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.”