IN the train despatcher’s office at Warmington, one hundred and twenty miles to the east of Hitchen’s Siding, the force was hard at work under the electric light. Philip Manson, division superintendent, strolled in, although it was long past his office hours, for he was one of those indefatigable railroad men loth to take his fingers off the pulse of the great organisation he controlled, and no employee of the road could be certain of any hour, night or day, when Manson might not be standing unexpectedly beside him. As this silent man surveyed the busy room, listening to the click of the telegraphic sounders, which spoke to him as plainly as if human lips were uttering the language of the land, he was startled by a cry from Hammond, the train despatcher. Hammond sprang like a madman to the sender, and the key, at lightning speed, rattled forth—“Sidetrack Sixteen. Sidetrack Sixteen.”

Instinctively the division superintendent knew what had happened. To the most accurate of men, faithful and exact through years of service, may come an unaccountable momentary lapse of vigilance. The train despatcher had forgotten Number Sixteen! Instantly the road spread itself out before the mind’s eye of the superintendent. He knew every inch of it. The situation revealed itself to his mathematical brain as a well-known arrangement of men and pawns would display to an expert what could or could not be done on the chess-board. He knew where Number Three would lose further time on the up-grades, but now, alas! it was speeding along a flat country, where every minute meant a mile. Nevertheless, there was one chance in a thousand that the express had not yet reached Hitchen’s, and his quick mind indicated the right thing to be done.

“Tell him to stop Number Three,” he snapped forth.

The despatcher obeyed. Where disaster was a matter of moments, there was little use in awaiting the slow movements of a heavy freight-train when the express, a demon of destruction, was swooping down on the scene. There came no answer to the frenzied appeal. Every man in the room was on his feet, and each held his breath as if the crash and the shrieks could leap across one hundred and twenty miles and penetrate into that appalled office. Then the sounder began, leisurely and insolent:

“I sidetracked Sixteen on my own, and set the signal against Three until Sixteen was in. Are you people crazy, or merely plain drunk?”

The tension snapped like an overstrained wire. One man went into shriek after shriek of laughter; another laid his head on his desk and sobbed. Hammond staggered into a chair, and an assistant held a glass of water to his ashen lips. The division superintendent stood like a statue, a deep frown marking his displeasure at the flippant message that had come in upon such a tragic crisis. But the assurance that the express was safe cleared his brow.

“The man at the siding is named John Steele, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send down a substitute to-morrow, and tell Steele to report to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

And this is how our young man came to be Philip Man-son’s right-hand helper in the division superintendent’s office of the Grand Union Station at Warmington City.

The Grand Union Station is a noble pile of red brick, rough and cut stone and terra-cotta, adorned by a massive corner tower holding aloft a great clock that gives the city standard time. The tower is the pride of Warmington—a pillar of red cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, with the hours distinct a mile away. The tower may be taken as a monument to the power and wealth of the Rockervelts, although in larger cities they possessed still more imposing architecture to uphold their fame.

The Manateau Midland, which made this immense structure its eastern terminus, was merely a link in the Rockervelt chain of admirably equipped railways; but, as the title, Union, implied, other roads, mostly bankrupt lines or branches of the Midland, enjoyed running rights into the Grand Union Station.

The transferring of a country youth at an enhanced salary, from a lone pine shanty on the prairie to this palatial edifice in the city seemed to John like being translated bodily to heaven. Now he had his chance, and that was all he asked of fate. He delighted in railway work. The strident screech of the whistles, the harsh clanking of cars coming together, all the discordant sounds of the station-yard, were as orchestral music to him, and he never tired of the symphony. He speedily became the most useful man about the place, and was from the first the most popular. He had a habit of dashing here and there bare-headed, and to heat or cold was equally indifferent. There was not a trace of malice in the lad, and he was ever ready with a cheery word or a helping hand. He seemed able to do anything, from running an engine to tapping a wire, and was willing in an emergency to work night and day, without a grumble, till he dropped from fatigue. Silent Philip Man-son watched Steele’s progress with unspoken approval, and loved him not the less that for all the lad’s witty exuberance not a word had ever passed his lips about that sinister blunder at Hitchen’s Siding. Those things are not to be spoken of, and even the general manager knew nothing of the crisis. The train despatcher had retired, nerve-broken, and the newspapers never guessed why.

But there was one man who did not like John, and that was no less important a personage than the general manager himself. His huge room in the lower part of the tower was as sumptuously furnished as an eastern palace. T. Acton Blair, general manager of the Manateau Midland, was supposed to be related to the Rockervelt family, but this was perhaps a fallacy put forth to account for the placing of such a palpably incompetent man in so responsible a position. He was a bald-headed, corpulent personage, pompous and ponderous, slow moving and slow speaking, saying perfectly obvious things in a deep, impressive voice, as if he were uttering the wisdom of ages. His subordinate, Philip Manson, as everybody knew, was responsible for the efficiency of the road; and when he wanted a project carried out, he always pretended it was Blair’s original idea, so the general manager got the credit if it was a success, and Manson shouldered the blame if it was not.

One morning, as Philip Manson was about to leave the general manager’s room, after the customary daily interview with his chief, the latter said: “By the way, Manson, who is that individual who rushes about these offices at all hours, as if he thought he were running the whole Rockervelt system?”

“I suspect you refer to John Steele, one of my assistants, sir.”

“I don’t like him, Manson; he seems obtrusive.”

“I assure you, sir, he is a most capable man.”

“Yes, yes, I dare say; but, as I have often told you, the success of our organisation is in method, not in haste.”

“Quite so, sir.”

“That person always gives me the idea that something is wrong—that a fire has broken out, or a man has been run over. I don’t like it. His clothes are untidy and seem to have been made for some one else. I shouldn’t like Mr. Rockervelt to see that we have such an unkempt person on our clerical staff.”

“I’ll speak to him, sir; I admit his manner does not do him justice.”

When Manson next encountered John alone, he spoke with more than his usual severity.

“Steele, I wish you would pay some attention to your clothes. Get a new business suit and take care of it. Remember you are in the city of Warmington, and not at Hitchen’s Siding.”

“Yes, sir,” said John contritely, looking down with new dismay at his grease-stained trousers.

“I wish also you would abandon your habit of running all over the place without a hat.”

“I’ll do it, sir.”

The catastrophe came with appalling suddenness. The Pacific Express Steele had saved, but himself he could not save.

Tearing down the long corridor at breakneck speed, he turned a corner and ran bang into the imposing front of the general manager. That dignified potentate staggered back against the wall gasping, while his glossy silk hat rolled to the floor. John, brought up as suddenly as if he had collided with a haystack, groaned in terror, snatched the tall hat from the floor, brushed it, and handed it to the speechless magnate.

“I’m very, very sorry, sir,” he ventured. But Mr. Acton Blair made no reply. Leaving the culprit standing there, he put on his hat and strode majestically to the division superintendent’s room.

“Manson!” he panted, dropping into a chair, “discharge that lunatic at once!”

The division superintendent was too straightforward a man to pretend ignorance regarding Blair’s meaning. His face hardened into an expression of obstinacy that amazed his chief.

“The Rockervelt system is deeply indebted to Mr. Steele—a debt it can never repay. He saved Number Three last November from what would have been the most disastrous accident of the year.”

“Why was I never told of this?”

“For three reasons, sir. First, the fewer people that know of such escapes, the better; second, Hammond, who was responsible, voluntarily resigned on plea of ill-health; third, Hammond was your nephew.”

Mr. T. Acton Blair rose to his feet with that majesty of bulk which pertains to corpulent men. It was an action which usually overawed a subordinate.

“I think you are making a mistake, sir, regarding our relative positions. I am general manager of the Manateau Midland, and as such have a right to be informed of every important event pertaining to the road.”

“Your definition of the situation is correct. Both you and Mr. Rockervelt should have been told of the narrow escape of the express.”

There was a glitter as of steel in the keen eyes of the superintendent, while the inflated manner of the manager underwent a visible change, like a distended balloon pricked by a pin. Mr. Blair knew well the danger to himself and his vaunted position if the event under discussion came to the knowledge of the great autocrat in New York, so he tried to give his surrender the air of a masterly retreat.

“Well, well, Mr. Manson, I don’t know but you were right. The less such things are talked of, the better. They have a habit of getting into the papers, and undermining public confidence, and we should all try to avoid such publicity. Yes, you did quite right, so we will let it go at that.”

“And how about Mr. Steele?”

“After all, Manson, he is in your department, and you may do as you please. I should rather see him go, but I don’t insist upon it. Good afternoon, Mr. Manson.” The great man took his departure ponderously, leaving Manson somewhat nonplussed. As soon as the door to the corridor closed behind Blair, the door to Manson’s secretary’s room, which had been ajar during this conversation, flew open, and the impetuous Steele came rushing in.

“Excuse me, Mr. Manson,” he cried, “but I was waiting to see you, and I could not help hearing part of what you and Mr. Blair said. I did not intend to listen; but if I had shut the door it would have attracted attention, so I didn’t know what to do. I suppose he told you we had a head-on collision, round a curve, with no signals out.”

The young man tried to carry it off jauntily with a half nervous laugh, but Manson’s face was sober and unresponsive.

“It was all my fault, and you had warned me before,” continued Steele breathlessly. “Now you stood up to the old man for me, and made him back water; but I’m not going to have you get into trouble because of me. I’ve discharged John Steele. I’m going in now to Mr. Blair, and I’ll apologise and resign. I’ll tell him you warned me to quit rushing round, and that I didn’t quit. I’m sorry I telescoped him, but not half so sorry as that I’ve disappointed you.”

“Nonsense!” said Manson severely. “Go back to your desk; and let this rest for a day or two. I’ll see the manager about it later on.” He noticed the moisture in the younger man’s eyes, and the quiver of his nether lip, so he spoke coldly. Emotion has no place in the railway business.

“No, sir, I’d never feel comfortable again. There’s lots of work waiting for me, and it won’t have to wait long. I’m going for it as I went for Mr. Blair’s waistcoat. But I want to tell you, Mr. Manson, that—that all the boys know you’re a brick, who’ll stand by them if they—if they do the square thing.”

And as if his disaster had not been caused by his precipitance, the youth bolted headlong from the room before Manson could frame a reply.

The division superintendent put on his hat and left the room less hurriedly than John had done. He made his way to that sumptuous edifice known as the University Club. The social organisation which it housed had long numbered Manson as a member, but he was a most infrequent visitor. He walked direct to the cosiest corner of the large reading-room, and there, in a luxurious arm-chair, found, as he had expected, the Hon. Duffield Rogers, an aged gentleman with a gray beard on his chin and a humourous twinkle in his eye. Mr. Rogers was a millionaire over and over again, yet he was president of the poorest railway in the State, known as the Burdock Route, whose eastern terminus was in the Grand Union which Manson had just left. Rogers occupied a largely ornamental position on the Burdock, as he did in the arm-chair of the club. He was surrounded by a disarray of newspapers on the floor, and allowed the one he was holding to fall on the pile as he looked up with a smile on seeing Manson approach.

“Hallo, Manson! Is the Midland going to pay a dividend, that you’ve got an afternoon off?”

“What do you know about dividends?” asked Manson, with a laugh. He seemed a much more jocular person at the club than in the railway-office, and he was not above giving a sly dig at the Burdock Route, which had never paid a dividend since it was opened.

“Oh! I read about ’em in the papers,” replied the Hon. Duffield serenely. “How’s that old stick-in-the-mud Blair? I’m going to ask the committee of this club to expel him. He has the cheek to swell around here, in my presence, and pretend he knows something about railroading. I’d stand that from you, but not from T. Acton Blair. He forgets I’m president of a road, while he’s only a general manager. I tell him I rank with Rockervelt, and not with mere G. M’s.”

The old millionaire laughed so heartily at his own remarks that some of the habituÉs of the reading-room looked sternly at the framed placard above the mantelshelf which displayed in large black letters the word “Silence.” Manson drew up a chair beside the old man and said earnestly:

“I came in to see you on business, Mr. Rogers. There is a young fellow in my office who will develop into one of the best railroad men of our time. I want you to find a place for him on your line.”

“Oh! we’re not taking on any new men. Just the reverse. We laid off the general manager and about fifteen lesser officials a month ago, and we don’t miss ’em in the least. I’ve been trying to resign for the past year, but they won’t let me, because I don’t ask any salary.”

“This man will be worth double his money anywhere you place him.”

“I am not saying anything against your man except that we don’t want him. The Burdock’s practically bankrupt—you know that.”

“Still, John Steele, the young fellow I’m speaking of, won’t want much money, and he understands railroading down to the ground.”

“If he is a valuable man, why are you so anxious to get rid of him?” asked the wily president, with a smile.

“I’m not. I’d rather part with all the rest of my staff than with Steele; but Mr. Blair has taken a dislike to him, and——”

“Enough said,” broke in the president of the Burdock. “That dislike, coupled with your own preference, makes the best recommendation any man could ask. How much are you paying Steele?”

“Ten dollars a week.”

The old man mused for a few moments, then chuckled aloud in apparent enjoyment.

“I’ll give him fifteen,” he said. “Will that satisfy him?”

“It will more than satisfy him.”

“But I pay the amount on one condition.”

“What is that, Mr. Rogers?”

“The condition is that he accepts and fills the position of general manager of the Burdock Route.”

“General manager!” echoed Manson, “I’m talking seriously, Mr. Rogers.”

“So am I, Manson, so am I. And don’t you see what a good bargain I’m driving? You say Steele is first class. All right; I know you wouldn’t vouch for him unless that were so. Very well. I get a general manager for fifteen dollars a week; cheapest in the country, and doubtless the best. I confess, however, my chief delight in offering him the position is the hope of seeing old Blair’s face when he first meets in conference the youth he has dismissed, his equal in rank if not in salary. It will be a study in physiognomy.”

If the staid Philip Manson thought that Steele’s native modesty would prevent him from accepting the management of the Burdock Route, he was much mistaken. When Manson related quietly the result of his interview with the Hon. Duffield Rogers, the youth amazed him by leaping nearly to the ceiling and giving utterance to a whoop more like the war-cry of a red Indian than the exclamation of a Scottish Highlander. Then he blushed and apologised for his excitement, abashed by Manson’s disapproving eyes.

“I tell you what it is, Mr. Manson, I’ll make the roadbed of the old Burdock as good as you’ve made the Midland, and I’ll——”

“Tut, tut!” said Manson, in his most unenthusiastic tone; “you can do nothing without money, and the Burdock’s practically bankrupt. Be thankful if you receive your fifteen a week with reasonable regularity. Now, here is a letter to the Hon. Duffield Rogers. Give it to the doorman at the club, and Mr. Rogers will invite you in. You will find the president a humourous man and you have a touch of the same quality yourself; but repress it and treat him with the greatest respect, for humourists get along better with dull people like myself than with one another. Although you are leaving the jurisdiction of Mr. Blair, do not forget what I told you about paying attention to your clothes. You will be meeting important men whom you may have to persuade, and it is better to face them well groomed; a prepossessing appearance counts in business. Prepossession is nine points in the game. Here is the letter, so be off.” The division superintendent rose and extended his hand. “And now, my boy, God bless you!”

The tone of the benediction sounded almost gruff, but there was a perceptible quaver underneath it, and after one firm clasp of the hand the divisional superintendent sat down at his desk with the resolute air of a man determined to get on with his work. As for John, he could not trust his voice, either for thanks or farewell; so he left the room with impetuous abruptness, and would have forgotten his hat if he had not happened to hold it in his hand.

To the ordinary man the Burdock Route was a badly kept streak of defective rails, rough as a corduroy road. To John Steele it was a glorious path to Paradise; an air line of tremendous possibilities. He went up and down its length, not in a private car, but on ordinary locals and freight trains. He became personally acquainted with every section foreman and with nearly every labourer between Warmington and Portandit, the western terminus. He found them, as a usual thing, sullen and inert; he left them jolly and enthusiastic, almost believing in the future of the road.

He proved an unerring judge of character. The useless men were laid off, while the competent were encouraged and promoted. He could handle a shovel with the best of them, or drive in a spike without missing a blow. In a year he had the Burdock Route as level as a billiard-table without extra expenditure of money, and travelers were beginning to note the improvement, so that receipts increased. He induced the Pullman Company to put an up-to-date sleeper on the night trains, east and west, and withdraw their antiquated cars hitherto in use.

But there was one thing Steele was not able to accomplish. He could not persuade the venerable president of the road to regard it as anything but a huge joke. The Hon. Duffield Rogers absolutely refused to leave his comfortable chair in the club and take a trip over the Burdock. The president delighted in Steele’s company, and got him made a member of the club, setting him down as a graduate of the Wahoo University, which was supposed to exist somewhere in the remote West. Rogers was a privileged member and a founder of the club, so the committee did not scrutinise his recommendation too closely.

“It’s no use, John,” he would say, when his fervent assistant urged him to come and see what had been done on the Burdock. “Life is hard enough at best without my spending any part of it in a beastly place like Portandit. I hear you have done wonders with the road, but you can’t accomplish anything really worth while with a route that has no terminus on the Atlantic. As long as you have to hand over your Eastern traffic to the Rock-ervelts at Warmington, and take what Western freight they care to allow you, you are in the clutch of the Rock-ervelts, and they can freeze you out whenever they like.=

```You may grade, you may ballast your road, if you will,

```But the shadow of Rockervelt’s over you still."=

Thus Steele always received his discouragement from his own chief, and with most people this would ultimately have dampened enthusiasm; but John was ever optimistic and a believer in his work. One day he rushed into the club, his hat on the back of his head, and his eyes ablaze with excitement.

“Mr. Rogers, I’ve solved the problem at last!” he cried. “I tell you, well make the Burdock the greatest line in this country.”

He shoved aside the heaps of magazines from the reading-room table and spread out a map on its surface. The Hon. Duffield rose slowly to his feet and stood beside the eager young man. A kindly, indulgent smile played about the lips of the aged president.

“Now see here!” shouted Steele (they were alone together in the room, and the “Silence” placard made no protest). “There’s Beechville, on the Burdock Route, and here’s Collins’ Centre, on the C. P. & N. Between these two points are sixty-three miles of prairie country, as level as a floor. It will be the cheapest bit of road to build in America; no embankments, no cuttings, no grade at all. Why, just dump the rails down, and they’d form a line of themselves! Once the Burdock taps the C. P. & N., there is our route clear through to tide-water, independent of the Rockervelt System.”

Steele, his face aglow, looked up at the veteran, but the indulgent smile had taken on a cynical touch. Mr. Rogers placed his hand on John’s shoulder in kindly fashion and said slowly:

“If that were possible it would have been done long since. You could not get your charter. Rockervelt would buy the Legislature, and we in the West haven’t money enough to outbid him.”

Steele’s clenched fist came down on the map with a force that made the stout table quiver.

“But I’ve got the charter!” he roared, in a voice that made the doorman outside think there was trouble in the reading-room. The Hon. Duffield Rogers sank once more into his arm-chair and gazed at John.

“You’ve got the charter?” he echoed quietly.

“Certainly, and it didn’t cost me a cent. The Governor signed it yesterday.”

“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings—” murmured the old man, who had years of experience behind him in the bribing of law-makers. “In Heaven’s name, how did you manage it?”

“I went to the capital, became acquainted with the legislators—splendid fellows, all of them—personal friends of mine now; I showed them how such a link would benefit the State, and the bill went through like that.” John snapped his fingers.

“Well, I’m blessed!” ejaculated the old-time purchaser of valuable franchises.

“Now, Mr. Rogers, you understand financiering, and know all the capitalists. I understand the railway business. You raise the money, I’ll build the road, and we’ll be into New York with a whoop.”

For one brief instant Steele thought he had conquered.

Like an old war-horse at the sound of the bugle, Rogers stiffened his muscles for the fight. The light of battle flamed in his eye as the memory of the conquest of millions returned to him. But presently he leaned back in his chair with a sigh, and the light flickered out.

“Ah, John!” he whispered plaintively, “I wish I had met you thirty years ago; but alas! you weren’t born then. What a team we would have made! But I’m too old and, besides, your scheme wouldn’t work. I might get up the money, and I might not. The very name of the Burdock is a hoodoo. But even if the money were subscribed and the link built, we would merely be confronted by a railroad war. The Rockervelts would cut rates, and the longest purse is bound to win, which means we should go to the wall.”

Steele sat down with his face in his hands, thoroughly discouraged for the first time in his life. He felt a boyish desire to cry, and a mannish desire to curse, but did neither. The old gentleman rambled on amiably: “You are a ten-thousand dollar man, John, but your line of progress is on some road with a future. Follow my advice and take your charter to that old thief Rocker-velt himself. There lies your market.”

“How can I do that,” growled John from between his fingers, “when I am an employee of the Burdock?”

“Technically so am I; therefore, as your chief, I advise you to see Rockervelt.”

“All right!” cried Steele, springing to his feet as if his minute of deep despondency had been time thrown away that could not be spared. He shook hands cordially with the president, and returned his genial smile.