THE station-master said nonchalantly that he had nothing to do with it, and from out the telegraph office he brought a stout wooden chair which he set down in the dark strip of shade which ran along the pine platform under the eaves of the station. The back of this chair being tilted against the building, the station-master sat down in it, put his heels on the wooden round, took from his pocket a jack-knife, and began to whittle a stick, an occupation which the momentary pausing of the express seemed to have interrupted. There was nothing of the glass of fashion or the mould of form about the station-master. He was dressed in weather-worn trousers, held to his thin frame by a pair of suspenders quite evidently home-made, which came over his shoulders, and underneath this was a coarse woollen shirt, open at the throat because the button had gone. On top of all this there perched a three-year-old, dilapidated straw hat which had once possessed a wide brim, but was now in a state of disrepair in thorough keeping with the costume. Yet in spite of appearances he was a capable young man who could manipulate a telegraphic machine at reasonable speed, was well up in the business pertaining to Slocum Junction, and had definite opinions regarding the manner in which the affairs of the nation should be carried on. Indeed, at that moment he was an exemplification of the independence for which his country had fought and bled. No one knew better than he that the Greased Lightning Express would never have halted for an instant at Slocum Junction unless it did so to put off a person of some importance. But that important person had begun to give his opinion of the locality in language that was painful and free the moment he realised the situation, and the station-master signified his resentment by sitting down in the chair and assuming a careless attitude, which told the stranger plainer than words that he could go to the devil if he wished. For all he knew, the obstreperous person who had stepped from the express might be his chief, but the station-master made no concession to this possibility.

Opposite him in the blazing sunlight stood a dapper young man grasping a neat handbag. He might have posed as a tailor’s model, and he offered a striking contrast to the unkempt station-master. He cast an almost despairing look at the vanishing express, now a mere dot in the horizon, with a trail of smoke, as if it were a comet that had run aground. Then he turned an exasperated face upon the nonchalant station-master.

“You are not responsible for the situation, eh? You don’t seem to care much, either.”

“Well, to tell the truth, stranger, I don’t.”

“You mean to tell me there’s no train for two hours and a half on the branch line?”

“I never said anything of the sort, because there isn’t any branch line.”

“No branch line? Why, there it is before my eyes! There’s a locomotive, of a kind, and a composite passenger and freight-car that evidently dates from the time of the Deluge. Noah used that car!” cried the angry stranger.

“Well, if Noah was here, he wouldn’t use it for two hours and a half,” said the station-master complacently.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” protested the stranger. “Is there, or is there not, a train in two hours and a half?”

“Of course there is.”

“You said a minute ago there wasn’t.”

“I didn’t say anything of the kind, and if you weren’t adding your own natural heat to the unnatural heat of the day, you’d learn something. You were talking about branch lines; I said there is no branch line. That’s all.”

“Then what’s the meaning of those two lines of rust running to the right?”

“There’s five or six thousand people,” droned the station-master, “who’d like to know what that object you’re referring to really is. Leastways, they used to want to know, but lately they’ve given up all curiosity on the subject. They’re the shareholders, who put up good money to have that road made. We call it the Farmers’ Road, and it isn’t a branch, but as independent as the main line.”

“Or as yourself,” hazarded the young man.

“Well, it’s independent, anyhow,” continued the station-master, “and I’ve nothing to do with it.”

“Haven’t the cursed fools who own it the sense to make it connect with anything on the main line?”

“Of course, we’re all fools unless we come from Chicago,” said the station-master imperturbably.

“I didn’t say that,” commented the stranger.

“No, I did. If your dome of thought was in working order, I shouldn’t need to explain these things; but as I’ve nothing particular to do, I may as well teach a man from Chicago his ABC. You stepped off the express just now owning the whole country, populated with fools, according to you. I’ve been station-master here for eighteen months, and I never saw that express stop before. I may be an idiot, but still I am aware that a man who steps off the Greased Lightning is one of two things. He is either a bigbug with pull enough on the railway company to get them to stop the Greased Lightning for him, or else he’s a tramp who can’t pay his fare, and so is put off.”

“Oh, you’ve sized me up, have you? Well, which am I? The millionaire or the tramp?”

“When you stepped off, I thought you were the millionaire; but the moment you opened your mouth, I knew you were the tramp.”

John Steele laughed with very good-natured heartiness.

“Say, old man, that’s all right. The drinks are on me, if there were a tavern near, which there doesn’t seem to be. I suppose there’s no place in this God-forsaken hole where on a hot day like this a man can get a cooling beverage?”

“Stranger, you’re continually jumping at conclusions and landing at the wrong spot. Allow me to tell you”—here he lowered his voice a bit—“that you don’t raise no blush to my cheeks by anything you can say; but there’s a lady in the waiting-room, and if I were you I’d talk accordingly.”

The change in the cocksure attitude of John Steele was so sudden and complete that it brought a faint smile of gratification to the gaunt face of the station-master.

“Great heavens!” whispered the crestfallen young man, “why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Well, you’ve been kind of monopolising the conversation, and I haven’t had much chance to speak up to now. One would suppose that if a man had a thinking-machine in his head at all, he would know that the little road couldn’t connect with a train that never stopped here.”

“Of course, of course,” said John hurriedly, his mind running on the language he had used in the first moments of chagrin at finding himself marooned at this desolate junction, which might have been heard by the unseen lady in the waiting-room. He hoped his voice hadn’t carried through the pine wall.

“Well, station-master, I apologise. And now, if you will kindly tell me what the Farmers’ Road does connect with, I’ll be very much obliged.”

“The Farmers’ Road runs two trains a day,” said the station-master sententiously, as if he were speaking of some mighty empire. “The train consists, as you see, of a locomotive and a mixed car. The first train comes in here at nine o’clock in the morning, connecting with the local going east. It then returns to Bunkerville, and reaches here in the afternoon at three o’clock, to connect with the local going west. That little train doesn’t know there are any flyers on our line; all it knows is that the eastern local comes in somewhere about nine o’clock in the morning, and the western local arrives anywhere between three and five in the afternoon. So a Chicago man can’t step jauntily off the express he has managed to stop, and expect to get a train to Bunkerville whenever he chooses.”

“Admirably stated,” said John Steele. “And if you will condescend further to enlighten a beclouded intellect would you mind explaining what the deuce the little train is doing here at this hour? If I follow your argument, it should have returned to Bunkerville after the nine o’clock local came in, arriving here again just before three o’clock.”

“Your befogged brain is waking up,” said the station-master encouragingly. “The phenomenon to which you have called attention happens once or twice a week. If you cast your eye to the other end of the platform, you will see piled there an accumulation of miscellaneous freight. The Farmers’ Road has just dumped that upon us, and to do so has taken a special trip. That stuff will go east on Number Eight, which is a freight train that will stop here some time in the afternoon when it sees the signal set against it.”

“I comprehend,” said Steele; “and I venture on my next proposition with great diffidence, caused by increasing admiration of yourself and the lucid mind you bring to bear on Western railway procedure. If I have followed your line of argument as unerringly as the farmers’ train follows the Farmers’ Road, his nibs the engineer must take the train back to Bunkerville so that he may return here on his regular trip to meet the three o’ clock western local. If I am right, what is to prevent him from going now, taking me with him, and giving me an opportunity at Bunkerville to transact my business and catch the regular train back?—for I am going further west, and would like to intercept the local, which would save me spending an unnecessary night at Bunkerville, and wasting most of to-morrow as well.”

“The reasons are as follows: His nibs, as you call him, is engineer, conductor, brakeman, and freight handler. When he came in, he had to carry that freight from his car to the platform where you see it. That takes time, even if the day were not so oppressively hot as it is. So, instead of keeping up his fire under the boiler, and burning useless coal, he banks the furnace as soon as he arrives. Then, at his leisure, he removes the boxes to the platform. If he returned to Bunkerville, they would give him something to do there; here he is out of reach; besides, he would have to draw his fires and start anew about two o’clock, and that he doesn’t want to do. He has, therefore, curled himself up in the passenger car, put a newspaper over his face to keep off the flies, and has gone to sleep. When the proper moment arrives he will stir up his fire, go to Bunkerville, and then be ready to make the return trip on one expenditure of coal. Now do you understand?”

“Yes, thank you, I do; and this has given me an idea.”

“That’s a good thing, and I can easily guess what your idea is. But before putting it into operation, I should like to mitigate a slight you have put on Slocum Junction. You made a sarcastic remark about cool drinks. Now, I beg to inform you that the nine o’clock local from the west slides off on this here platform every morning a great big square cold chunk of ice. That chunk of ice is growing less and less in a big wooden pail in the telegraph-office, but the water that surrounds it is chilly as the North Pole. If you have anything in your hip pocket or in that natty little valise which mitigates the rigour of cold water, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t indulge in a refreshing drink.”

“Station-master,” said John, laughing, “you ought to be superintendent of this road, instead of junction boss. You’re the wisest man I’ve met in two years.”

Saying this, he sprang the catch of the handbag and drew forth a bulky, wicker-covered, silver-topped flask.

“I propose we adjourn to the telegraph-office,” he added, “and investigate that wooden pail.”

The station-master led the way with an alacrity that he had not heretofore exhibited. The result of the conference was cheerful and comforting.

“Now,” said the station-master, drawing the back of his hand across his lips, “what you want is a special train to Bunkerville. A man from the city would get that by telegraphing to the superintendent at the terminus and paying twenty dollars. A man from the country who had some sense would go to Joe the engineer and persuade him he ought to wake up and return to Bunkerville at once.”

“How much would be required to influence Joe?”

“Oh, a couple of dollars would be wealth. A silver dollar in front of each eye will obscure the whole Western prairie if placed just right.”

“Very well, I’ll go out and place ‘em.”

“You are forgetting your flask,” said the station-master, as Steele snapped shut his valise.

“No, I’m not. That flask and its contents belong to you, as a reward for being patient and instructive when a darned fool let loose from the city happened your way.”

And this showed John Steele to be a reader of his fellow-man; for while the engineer might accept the two dollars, the independent station-master certainly would not have done so. That glib official, however, seemed to have no particular words for this occasion, so he changed the subject and said: “If you persuade Joe to go, I wish you’d remember the lady in the waiting-room. She’s a Miss Dorothy Slocum, and a powerful nice girl, that teaches school in Bunkerville. Fact is, this junction was named after her father. Used to be the principal man round these parts; but he lost his money, and now his girl’s got to teach school. I never knew him—he was dead long before I came here. She’s been visiting relatives. This is vacation time, you know.”

“All right. You tell her there’s a special leaving in a few minutes, and that she’s very welcome to ride upon it.”

With that John Steele went out into the furnace of the sun across the dusty road and entered the composite car. The Farmers’ Road did not join rails with the main line, and so caused much extra handling of freight. The engine stood there simmering in the heat, both external and internal, a slight murkiness of smoke rising from its funnel, shaped like an inverted bell.

“Hallo, Joe!” cried Steele, as he entered the car. “Don’t you yearn for home and friends?”

The man was sprawling on two seats, with a newspaper over his head, as the station-master had predicted.

“Hello!” he echoed, sitting up and shaking away the sheet of paper, “what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, except that if the spirit should move you to get over to Bunkerville with this ancient combination, five dollars will be transferred from my pocket into yours.”

“‘Nough said,” cried Joe, rising to his feet. “It’ll take me about twenty minutes to get the pot boiling again. You don’t happen to have the fiver about you, I suppose? I haven’t seen one for a couple of years.”

“Here you are,” replied Steele, drawing a crisp bill from his purse.

The engineer thrust it into the pocket of his greasy overalls.

“I’ll toot the whistle when I’m ready,” he said.

This financial operation accomplished, John Steele returned to the station. The station-master was standing by the door of the waiting-room conversing pleasantly with someone within. When Steele entered the room he was amazed to see so pretty a girl sitting on the bench that ran round the bare walls of the uninviting apartment.

“Will you introduce me?” inquired the city man, handing his card to the station-master.

“Miss Dorothy Slocum,” said the latter, “this is Mr. John Steele, of Chicago.”

The young man removed his fashionable straw hat.

“Miss Slocum,” he said, “I desire to apologise to you. I’m afraid that when I found myself stranded on the platform outside, I used language which can hardly be justified, even in the circumstances. But I had no idea at the time that there was a lady within miles of us.”

“I was much interested in my book,” replied the girl, with a smile, “and was not paying attention to what was going on outside.”

She held up the volume, between whose leaves her fore-finger was placed.

“Well, Miss Slocum, it must have been a pretty absorbing story, and I am deeply grateful to it for acting as a non-conductor between my impulsive observations and your hearing. Nothing excuses intemperate language, as the station-master here has taught me through the force of a benign example. Still, if anything could exculpate a man, I should think it would be the exasperating conduct of this Farmers’ Railroad, as they call it.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Dorothy archly, “the book had really no right to interfere, because I am one of the owners of the railway, and so perhaps it was my duty to listen to complaints of a passenger. Not that I have anything to do with the management of the line; I am compelled to pay my fare just like the rest.”

“I shall be delighted if you accept a ride on your own road as free as if you carried a superintendent’s pass. I am going to Bunkerville in my own private car, as it were, and shall feel honoured if I may extend the courtesies of the same.”

“The station-master has just told me you were kind enough to offer a poor vagrant a lift to Bunkerville. I wished to buy a ticket, but this haughty official of the main line so despises our poor little road that he will not sell me one.”

“Indeed,” said the station-master, “I haven’t the power, nor the tickets. They don’t entrust me with any business so tremendous. Joe starts his rickety engine going, then leaves it to jog along as it likes, and comes through the car to collect the fares. They have no tickets, and perhaps that’s why the road has never paid a dividend.”

“Oh, you mustn’t say that!” protested the girl. “Poor Joe has not got rich out of his occupation, any more than the shareholders have made money on their shares. If you will permit me to pay my fare to Joe, Mr. Steele I shall be only too happy to take this early opportunity of getting to Bunkerville.”

“I couldn’t think of it, Miss Slocum; in fact, I must prohibit any communication between Joe and yourself, fearing you, as an owner of the road, may learn by what corrupt practices I induced Joe to make the trip.”

The girl laughed, but before she could reply, a wheezy

“Toot-toot!” outside announced that Joe had already got steam up.

“I’ll carry your valise across,” said the obliging station-master, while Miss Dorothy Slocum picked up her lighter belongings and accompanied Mr. John Steele to the shabby little passenger-car. Joe was leaning out of the cab with a grin on his smeared face, which was there probably because of the five-dollar bill in his trousers’ pocket. The station-master placed the valise in the baggage section of the car, and raised his tattered hat as the little train started gingerly out for the open country.

It was a pretty landscape through which they passed, with little to indicate that the prairies were so near at hand. The line ran along a shallow valley, well wooded, especially by the banks of the stream that wandered through it, which even at this parched season of the year was still running its clear-water course, and Miss Slocum informed the Chicago man that it flowed from a never-drying spring some ten miles on the other side of the main line. The little road was as crooked as possible, for the evident object of its constructors had been to avoid bridging the stream, piling up any high embankments or excavating deep cuttings. The pace, therefore, was exceedingly slow; nevertheless John Steele did not find the time hang heavily on his hands. At first the girl seemed somewhat shy and embarrassed to find herself the only passenger except this gallant young business man; but he tactfully put her at her ease by pretending much interest in the history of the railway, with which he soon learned she was unfortunately familiar.

“Yes,” she said; “the building of this road was the greatest financial disaster that ever occurred in this section of the country. My father was one of its chief promoters. When the Wheat Belt Line, by which you came here from Chicago, was surveyed through this part of the State, those interested in the neighbourhood expected it to run through Bunkerville, which would thus become a large town. The railway people demanded a large money bonus, which Bunker County refused, because Bunkerville was in the direct line, and they thought the railway must come through there, whether a bonus were paid or not. In fact, the first survey passed just north of Bunkerville. But our poor little village was not so important as its inhabitants imagined, and the next line surveyed was twenty miles away. For once the farmers were too shrewd. They thought, as they put it, that the new line was a bluff, and did not realise their mistake until too late. My father had been in favour of granting the bonus, but he was out-voted. Perhaps that is why the railway people called their station Slocum instead of Bunkerville, which was twenty miles distant. The next nearest railway line was forty-five miles away, and two years after the Wheat Belt Line began operations, it was proposed to organise a local company to construct a railway from Slocum, through Bunkerville to Jamestown, on the other line. Bonuses were granted all along the route, and besides this the State legislature gave a subsidy, and, furthermore, passed a bill to prevent competition, prohibiting any railway to parallel the Farmers’ Road for sixty miles on either side.”

“Does that law still stand on the statute books of the State?” asked Steele, with increasing interest.

“I think so. It has never been repealed to my knowledge.”

“Well, I should doubt its being constitutional. Why, that ties up more than seven thousand square miles of the State into a hard knot, and prevents it from acquiring the privilege of further railway communication.”

“In a measure it does,” said the girl. “You may run as many lines as you like north and south, but not east and west.”

“It’s a wonder the Wheat Belt Line didn’t contest that law,” said Steele.

“Well, I’ve been told that this law is entirely in the interests of the Wheat Belt Line, although the farmers didn’t think so when they voted for the Bill. You see, the Wheat Belt Line was already in operation east and west, and could not be affected by that Act, and, of course, the same Bill which prevented competition to the Farmers’ Road also, in a measure, protected the Wheat Belt Line through the same district.”

“By Jove!” said Steele, his eyes glistening, “this is a proposition which contains some peculiar points. Well, go on, what happened?”

“Oh, disaster happened. In spite of the legislation and bonuses, the road was a complete failure, and ruined all who were deeply interested in it. The farmers subscribed stock to the amount of something like a hundred thousand dollars, but this money, with the sum of the legislative grant and the bonuses, was all swallowed up in the first twenty miles, and in getting the rolling-stock and equipment, such as it is. The line was never pushed through to Jamestown, and there arose litigation about some of the bonuses that had been paid, and, all in all, it was a most disastrous business. It was hoped that the Wheat Belt Line would come to the rescue and buy the unfinished road, but they would not look at it. This section has never paid a dividend, and is supposed to be doing well when it earns enough money for expenses and repairs. The shares can now be bought for five cents on the dollar, or less.”

“How much of it do you possess, Miss Slocum?”

“I own a thousand shares, and my father told me not to part with them, because he was certain that some day they would be valuable.”

For a few moments there was silence in the car, and the girl, glancing up at her companion, found his ardent gaze fixed upon her with an intensity that was embarrassing. She flushed slightly and turned her head to look out of the window at the familiar scenery they were passing. It would have surprised the young man could he have read the thoughts that occupied the mind of this extremely pretty and charmingly modest girl who sat opposite him. Here is practically what she said to herself: “I am tired of this deadly dull village in which I live, and here, at last, is a way out. I read in his eyes the beginning of admiration. He shall be the youthful Moses to lead me into the Promised Land. Through this lucky meeting I shall attain the city if I but play my cards rightly.”

It would have astonished the girl if she had known what was in the man’s mind. The ardent gaze was not for her, as she had supposed. Although he appeared to be looking directly at her, he was in reality almost ignorant of her presence, and saw unfolded before him a scene far beyond her—the whole range of the Eastern States. The power that enabled him to stop the fast express at Slocum Junction gave a hint of Steele’s position in the railway world to the station-master, but it conveyed no meaning to the girl. It was his business to be intimately acquainted with the railway situation in northwestern America, and that involved the knowledge of what was going on in the Eastern States. He knew that the Rockervelt system was making for somewhere near this point, and that, ultimately, it would need to cross the State, in spite of the opposition it must meet from the Wheat Belt Line. Whoever possessed the Farmers’ bankrupt road held the right of way across the State, so far as a belt of one hundred and twenty miles was concerned. It seemed incredible that Rockervelt, this Napoleon of the railway world, should be ignorant of the obstacle that lay in his path. Rockervelt was in the habit of buying legislatures and crushing opposition; still, he never spent money where it was not required, and it would be infinitely cheaper to buy the Farmers’ Road, and thus secure the privileges pertaining to it, than to purchase the repeal of the obstructing law. At that moment John Steele determined to camp across the path of the conqueror. If Napoleon accepted battle, John was under no delusion as to the result. The name of Steele would disappear from the roll of rising young men in Chicago, and he might be forced to begin at the bottom of the ladder again. However, he knew that Napoleon’s eye was fixed on the Pacific coast, and that he never wasted time in a fight if a reasonable expenditure of money would cause the enemy to withdraw. Steele calculated that he could control the road for something under three thousand dollars, which would give him the majority of the stock at the price the girl had named. That was a mere bagatelle. Then he would withdraw from Rockervelt’s front for anything between three hundred thousand dollars and half a million. If he succeeded, he would at least recover all the money he had lost in the panic which followed the trickery of Rock-ervelt, Blair and Beck. But success meant more than this. Aside from the joy of relieving Rockervelt of a substantial sum, there would also follow the practical defeat of T. Acton Blair, for the Farmers’ Road was situated in that Western district on which the general manager was supposed to keep his eye, in the interests of the Rockervelt system.

A sigh from the girl brought him to a realisation of his neglect of social duties, and the brilliant vision of loot faded from his eyes.

“What pretty scenery we are passing!” he said. “The wooded dell, and the sparkling little rivulet running through it. It is sweet and soothing after the rush and turmoil of a great city. It must be a delight to live here.”

“Indeed it isn’t!” cried the girl; “it is horrid! Deadly dull, utterly commonplace, with little chance of improving the mind, and none at all for advancing one’s material condition. I loathe the life and yearn for the city.”

As she said this she bestowed upon him a fascinating glimpse of a pair of lovely eyes, and veiled within them he saw what he took to be a tender appeal for sympathy and, perhaps, for help. After all, he was a young man, and perhaps that glance had carried a hypnotic suggestion to his very soul; and, added to all this, the girl was undoubtedly beautiful.

“Really,” he said, leaning forward towards her, “I think that might be managed, you know.”

“Do you?” she asked, looking him full in the face.

At this interesting moment the car slowly came to a standstill at a wooden platform, and Joe thrust open the door and shouted: “Here you are! Bunkerville!”

Dorothy Slocum held out her hand shyly to John Steele as she bade him “Good-bye.” She thanked him once more for allowing her to ride on the special train, and added: “If you ever come to Bunkerville again, I hope you will not forget me.”

“Forget you!” cried the enthusiastic young man. “I think you entirely underrate the attractions of Bunkerville. It seems to me a lovely village. But I shall visit it in the near future—not because of itself, but for the reason that a certain Miss Dorothy lives here.”

To this complimentary speech Miss Slocum made no reply, but she laughed and blushed in a manner very becoming to her, and somehow managed to leave an impression on Mr. Steele’s mind that she was far from being displeased at the words he had uttered.

When she was gone, the traveller asked Joe where the office of Mr. Hazlett, the lawyer, was situated, and being directed, he was speedily in the presence of the chief legal functionary that Bunkerville possessed. Steele had a considerable amount of money lent upon Bunkerville business property, and his lawyer had written him that, as times were backward, there arose some difficulty in persuading the debtors to meet the requirements of the mortgages. If the mortgages were foreclosed and the property sold, Hazlett did not think it would produce the money that had been borrowed upon it, and so Steele had informed him that he would drop off at Bunkerville on his way west and consult with him.

The lawyer had been looking for him on the regular train, and so was not at the station to meet him. If Hazlett had expected a visit from a hard old skinflint, bent on clutching his pound of financial flesh, he must have been somewhat surprised to greet a smiling young fellow who seemed to be thinking of anything but the property in question.

“We will just walk down the street,” said the lawyer, “and I’ll show you the buildings.”

“All right,” assented Steele, “if it doesn’t take too long; for I must catch the three o’clock local at Slocum Junction.”

During their walk together Steele paid but the scantiest interest to the edifices pointed out to him, and the lawyer soon found he was not even listening to the particulars he recited so circumstantially.

“Do you know anything about the Farmers’ Railway?” was the question Steele shot at him in the midst of a score of reasons why it was better not to foreclose at the present moment.

“I know all about it,” said the lawyer. “I have done the legal business of the road from its beginning.”

“Is there a list of the shareholders in existence?”

“I hold a partial list; but shares have changed hands a good deal, and sometimes no notification has been given me, which is contrary to law.”

“I was told to-day that shares can be bought at five cents on the dollar. Is that true?”

“Many shares have been sold at that price; some for less, some for more.”

“What is the total number of shares?’

“A hundred thousand.”

“Could fifty thousand and an odd share be bought?”

“Do you mean to get control of the road? Yes, I suppose it might be done if you weren’t in a hurry, and it was gone about quietly. Some farmers in the outlying districts refuse to sell, thinking the price of the stock will rise, which of course it won’t do. Nevertheless, I imagine there should be no difficulty in collecting fifty thousand shares and one more.”

“What would it cost?”

“Anywhere between three and five thousand dollars—all depending, as I said, on the thing being done circumspectly, for in these rural communities the wildest rumours get afloat, and so, if it became known that some one was in the market, prices would go up.”

“Well, I have in my mind exactly the man to do the trick with discretion, and his name is Hazlett. I will lodge in the bank here five thousand dollars in your name, and I depend on you to get me at least one share over the fifty thousand, although, to be on the safe side, you may purchase at least a thousand in excess. Send the shares to me in Chicago as fast as you secure them, and I’ll take care of them.”

“Very well, Mr. Steele, I shall do the best I can.”

“We will return to your office now, Hazlett, and I’ll hand you the cheque. In these matters it’s just as well not to lose any time.”

“There’s another building I want to show you, about five hundred yards down the street.”

“We won’t mind it to-day. I have determined to take your advice and not foreclose at the present moment. Let’s get back to your office, for I mustn’t miss Joe’s train.”

After Steele had returned to Chicago, shares in the Farmers’ Railroad began to drop in on him in bulky packages, which he duly noted and placed in a safe. Presently the packages became smaller and smaller, but as the total had already reached forty-nine thousand six hundred and thirty, Steele was not alarmed until he received the following letter from Hazlett:

Dear Mr. Steele:

About two weeks ago I became suspicious that somebody else was buying shares of the Farmers. Road. I came across at that time several people who had sold, although they did not know to whom; and a few days ago a young man called upon me to know if I had any shares for sale. I told him I had none, and as I showed very little interest in the matter, I got some information, and find that a man named T. Acton Blair, of Warmington, is the buyer, and apparently he has agents all over the country trying to purchase shares. I would have telegraphed this information to you were it not for the fact that our telegraph-office is a little leaky, and also because I thought I had the game in my own hands. A young woman in this town, a teacher, Dorothy Slocum by name, possesses a thousand shares, which I felt certain I could purchase for a reasonable figure. I began at ten cents, but she refused, and finally raised to fifty cents, and then a dollar. Higher than that I could not take the responsibility of going without direct authority from you. To my amazement, she has informed me to-day that she has been offered ten thousand dollars for her stock. I obtained her promise that she will not sell for a week. She telegraphed her decision to Blair, and has received an answer from him saying he is on his way to see her. I learn from Miss Slocum that she is acquainted with you, and I surmise, without being certain, that you personally will prove the successful negotiator if you are on the spot. This letter should reach you in time to enable you to arrive here at least as soon as Blair, and I advise prompt action on your part if we are to secure that thousand shares. If you cannot come, telegraph me any one of the following words, and I shall understand I am authorised to offer the amount set down opposite that word.

Yours most sincerely,

James P. Hazlett.

There followed this a dozen words, signifying amounts from ten thousand dollars upwards.

Lawyer Hazlett received a telegram:

Will reach Slocum Junction at twelve to-morrow. Arrange special train on the Farmers’ Road to Bunkerville to be at Junction.

Steele.

The moment Blair’s name caught John Steele’s eye in the lawyer’s letter, he knew that Rockervelt was at last alert and of course could outbid him a thousand to one.

When the Greased Lightning Express stopped at Slocum Junction on this occasion, John Steele had ample time to reach the platform, because the express detached itself from a sumptuous private car before it pursued its journey further west.

“Aha!” said John to himself, “friend Blair travels in style.”

The station-master greeted Steele with the cordiality of an old friend.

“Here is a letter which lawyer Hazlett sent out to be handed to you as soon as you arrived, and wished you to read it at once.”

Steele tore open the envelope and read:

I am sorry about the special train, but Blair had telegraphed from Warmington ordering it before your wire came. I have arranged, however, that Joe will return at once for you, as soon as he has landed Blair in Bunkerville. This will make no difference in the negotiations; Miss Slocum has promised to be away from home when Blair calls, and will see you first. I think you’ve got the inside track, although I surmise the young woman is well aware that she holds the key to the situation. I don’t know if she’s after all the money she can get, or whether there is something of friendliness in her action. I rather suspect the latter, and I think you can conclude negotiations before she sees Blair at all.

Yours most sincerely,

James P. Hazlett.

John Steele gave no expression to the annoyance he felt at missing the special. He distrusted the lawyer’s optimism, and like a flash resolved to be in Bunkerville as soon as his antagonist. Blair had stepped down from his private car, asked the station-master where the special was to be found, and quickly ordered his car to be placed on a side track. When he had entered the Bunkerville composition car, and Joe had started up his wheezy engine, Steele darted from the shadow of the station, caught the car and sat down on the rear steps outside, well concealed from the sight of anyone unless that person stood by the end window. All went well until they were about five miles from Bunkerville, when Steele thought he recognised a lady’s figure on the highway ahead, and forgetting that he might expose himself to the sharp eyes of Blair, he rose to his feet, clutched the stanchions, and leaned forward. An instant later the rear door was thrown open, a foot was planted energetically in the small of Steele’s back, and that young man went hurtling down the embankment, head over heels. There were no half measures with Blair in a crisis like this.

Steele sat up bruised and dazed, not knowing whether he was hurt seriously, or had escaped practically unscathed, which latter proved to be the case. It seemed to him, as he fell through the air, he heard a woman’s scream. When he was somewhat stupidly debating whether this was real or imaginary, his doubts were solved by a voice he recognised.

“Oh, Mr. Steele, are you hurt? What a brutal thing for that stout villain to have done!”

“Why, Miss Dorothy, you of all persons! And here was I trying to sneak into Bunkerville to see you first. I thought you were teaching school?”

“Not on Saturdays, Mr. Steele,” said the girl, laughing. “I see, after all, you are not injured.”

“I’m all right, I think. Fortunately Joe doesn’t run sixty miles an hour. Dorothy, I want you to marry me and come to Chicago.”

Again the girl laughed.

“Dear me,” she said. “I thought you were here to buy my stock. I couldn’t think of taking advantage of a proposal that had been literally shaken out of a man. I’m afraid your mind is wandering a bit.”

“My mind was never clearer in its life. What is your answer, Dorothy?”

She sat down beside him, still laughing a little. The rivulet was at their feet, the railway embankment behind them, the highway, shrouded by trees, in front.

“Suppose we talk business first, and indulge in sentiment after,” said the girl, with a roguish twinkle in her eye. “I have been offered ten thousand dollars for my shares. Are you prepared to pay as much?”

“Yes.”

“Cash down?”

“Yes.”

“I imagine Mr. Blair would never have come all the way from Warmington to see me if he were not ready to pay a larger sum. I have therefore two further provisos to make. Proviso number one is that you will give me ten per cent, on the profits you make in this transaction. Of course, in spite of Mr. Hazlett’s caution, I know there is something very large going on, and naturally I wish to profit by it.”

“You are quite right, Miss Slocum, and I agree to the ten per cent, suggestion; in fact, I offered you a hundred per cent, in the beginning, and myself into the bargain, which proposal you have ignored. What is the second proviso?”

“I am told you have a great deal of influence in railway circles in Chicago.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Can you get a good place for a capable and deserving young man?”

“I think so. Does he understand railroading?”

“Yes, he is the station-master at Slocum Junction.”

“Oh, the station-master! Certainly, I should be delighted to offer him a good position. He is a splendid fellow, and I like him exceedingly.”

“I am charmed to hear you say so,” said Dorothy, with downcast eyes, pulling a flower and picking it to pieces; “for that brings us to the sentiment, and I show my confidence in you and the great esteem in which I hold you, by telling you this strict secret—that I am engaged to be married to the station-master, and am anxious to get to Chicago.”