OAKLEY took the satchel from General Cornish's hand as the latter stepped from his private car.

“You got my note, I see,” he said. “I think I'll go to the hotel for the rest of the night.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, as he turned with Dan towards the bus which was waiting for them at the end of the platform.

“I guess no one else got off here. It's not much of a railroad centre.”

“No,” agreed Oakley, impartially; “there are towns where the traffic is heavier.”

Arrived at the hotel, Oakley led the way up-stairs to the general's room. It adjoined his own. Cornish paused on the threshold until he had lighted the gas.

“Light the other burner, will you?” he requested. “There, thanks, that's better.”

He was a portly man of sixty, with a large head and heavy face. His father had been a Vermont farmer, a man of position and means, according to the easy standard of his times. When the Civil War broke out, young Cornish, who was just commencing the practice of the law, had enlisted as a private in one of the first regiments raised by his State. Prior to this he had overflowed with fervid oratory, and had tried hard to look like Daniel Webster, but a skirmish or two opened his eyes to the fact that the waging of war was a sober business, and the polishing off of his sentences not nearly as important as the polishing off of the enemy. He was still willing to die for the Union, if there was need of it, but while his life was spared it was well to get on. The numerical importance of number one was a belief too firmly implanted in his nature to be overthrown by any patriotic aberration.

His own merits, which he was among the first to recognize, and the solid backing his father was able to give, won him promotion. He had risen to the command of a regiment, and when the war ended was brevetted a brigadier-general of volunteers, along with a score of other anxious warriors who wished to carry the title of general back into civil life, for he was an amiable sort of a Shylock, who seldom overlooked his pound of flesh, and he usually got all, and a little more, than was coming to him.

After the war he married and went West, where he resumed the practice of his profession, but he soon abandoned it for a commercial career. It was not long until he was ranked as one of the rich men of his State. Then he turned his attention to politics, He was twice elected to Congress, and served one term as governor. One of his daughters had married an Italian prince, a meek, prosaic little creature, exactly five feet three inches tall: another was engaged to an English earl, whose debts were a remarkable achievement for so young a man. His wife now divided her time between Paris and London. She didn't think much of New York, which had thought even less of her. He managed to see her once or twice a year. Any oftener would have been superfluous. But it interested him to read of her in the papers, and to feel a sense of proprietorship for this woman, who was spending his money and carrying his name into the centres of elegance and fashion. Personally he disliked fashion, and was rather shy of elegance.

There were moments, however, when he felt his life to be wholly unsatisfactory. He derived very little pleasure from all the luxury that had accumulated about him, and which he accepted with a curious placid indifference. He would have liked the affection of his children, to have had them at home, and there was a remote period in his past when his wife had inspired him with a sentiment at which he could only wonder. He held it against her that she had not understood.

He lurched down solidly into the chair Oakley placed for him. “I hope you are comfortable here,” he said, kindly.

“Oh yes.” He still stood.

“Sit down,” said Cornish. “I don't, as a rule, believe in staying up after midnight to talk business, but I must start East to-morrow.”

He slipped out of his chair and began to pace the floor, with his hands thrust deep in his trousers-pockets. “I want to talk over the situation here. I don't see that the road is ever going to make a dollar. I've an opportunity to sell it to the M. & W. Of course this is extremely confidential. It must not go any further. I am told they will discontinue it beyond this point, and of course they will either move the shops away or close them.” He paused in his rapid walk. “It's too bad it never paid. It was the first thing I did when I came West. I thought it a pretty big thing then. I have always hoped it would justify my judgment, and it promised to for a while until the lumber interests played out. Now, what do you advise, Oakley? I want to get your ideas. You understand, if I sell I won't lose much. The price offered will just about meet the mortgage I hold, but I guess the stockholders will come out at the little end of the horn.”

Oakley understood exactly what was ahead of the stockholders if the road changed hands. Perhaps his face showed that he was thinking of this, for the general observed, charitably:

“It's unfortunate, but you can't mix sentiment in a transaction of this sort. I'd like to see them all get their money back, and more, too.”

His mental attitude towards the world was one of generous liberality, but he had such excellent control over his impulses that, while he always seemed about to embark in some large philanthropy, he had never been known to take even the first step in that direction. In short, he was hard and unemotional, but with a deceptive, unswerving kindliness of manner, which, while it had probably never involved a dollar of his riches, had at divers times cost the unwary and the indiscreet much money.

No man presided at the board meetings of a charity with an air of larger benevolence, and no man drove closer or more conscienceless bargains. His friends knew better than to trust him—a precaution they observed in common with his enemies.

“I am sure the road could be put on a paying basis,” said Oakley. “Certain quite possible economies would do that. Of course we can't create business, there is just so much of it, and we get it all as it is. But the shops might be made very profitable. I have secured a good deal of work for them, and I shall secure more. I had intended to propose a number of reforms, but if you are going to sell, why, there's no use of going into the matter—” he paused.

The general meditated in silence for a moment. “I'd hate to sacrifice my interests if I thought you could even make the road pay expenses. Now, just what do you intend to do?”

“I'll get my order-book and show you what's been done for the shops,” said Oakley, rising with alacrity. “I have figured out the changes, too, and you can see at a glance just what I propose doing.”

The road and the shops employed some five hundred men, most of whom had their homes in Antioch. Oakley knew that if the property was sold it would practically wipe the town out of existence. The situation was full of interest for him. If Cornish approved, and told him to go ahead with his reforms, it would be an opportunity such as he had never known.

He went into his own room, which opened off Cornish's, and got his order-book and table of figures, which he had carried up from the office that afternoon.

They lay on the stand with a pile of trade journals. For the first time in his life he viewed these latter with an unfriendly eye. He thought of Constance Emory, and realized that he should never again read and digest the annual report of the Joint Traffic Managers' Association with the same sense of intellectual fulness it had hitherto given him. No, clearly, that was a pleasure he had outgrown.

He had taken a great deal of pains with his figures, and they seemed to satisfy Cornish that the road, if properly managed, was not such a hopeless proposition, after all. Something might be done with it.

Oakley rose in his good esteem; he had liked him, and he was justifying his good opinion. He beamed benevolently on the young man, and thawed out of his habitual reserve into a genial, ponderous frankness.

“You have done well,” he said, glancing through the order-book with evident satisfaction.

“Of course,” explained Oakley, “I am going to make a cut in wages this spring, if you agree to it, but I haven't the figures for this yet.” The general nodded. He approved of cuts on principle.

“That's always a wise move,” he said. “Will they stand it?”

“They'll have to.” And Oakley laughed rather nervously. He appreciated that his reforms were likely to make him very unpopular in Antioch. “They shouldn't object. If the road changes hands it will kill their town.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Cornish, indifferently.

“And half a loaf is lots better than no loaf,” added Oakley. Again the general nodded his approval. That was the very pith and Gospel of his financial code, and he held it as greatly to his own credit that he had always been perfectly willing to offer halfloaves.

“What sort of shape is the shop in?” he asked, after a moment's silence.

“Very good on the whole.”

“I am glad to hear you say so. I spent over a hundred thousand dollars on the plant originally.”

“Of course, the equipment can hardly be called modern, but it will do for the sort of work for which I am bidding,” Oakley explained.

“Well, it will be an interesting problem for a young man, Oakley. If you pull the property up it will be greatly to your credit. I was going to offer you another position, but we will let that go over for the present. I am very much pleased, though, with all you have done, very much pleased, indeed. I go abroad in about two weeks. My youngest daughter is to be married in London to the Earl of Minchester.”

The title rolled glibly from the great man's lips. “So you'll have the fight, if it is a fight, all to yourself. I'll see that Holloway does what you say. He's the only one you'll have to look to in my absence, but you won't be able to count on him for anything; he gets limp in a crisis. Just don't make the mistake of asking his advice.”

“I'd rather have no advice,” interrupted Dan, hastily, “unless it's yours,” he added.

“I'll see that you are not bothered. You are the sort of fellow who will do better with a free hand, and that is what I intend you shall have.”

“Thank you,” said Oakley, his heart warming with the other's praise.

“I shall be back in three months, and then, if your schemes have worked out at all as we expect, why, we can consider putting the property in better shape.”—A part of Oakley's plan.—“As you say, it's gone down so there won't be much but the right of way presently.”

“I hope that eventually there'll be profits,” said Oakley, whose mind was beginning to reach out into the future.

“I guess the stockholders will drop dead if we ever earn a dividend. That's the last thing they are looking forward to,” remarked Cornish, dryly. “Will you leave a six-thirty call at the office for me? I forgot, and I must take the first train.”

Oakley had gathered up his order-book and papers. The general was already fumbling with his cravat and collar.

“I am very well satisfied with your plan, and I believe you have the ability to carry it out.”

He threw aside his coat and vest and sat down to take off his shoes. “Don't saddle yourself with too much work. Keep enough of an office force to save yourself wherever you can. I think, if orders continue to come in as they have been doing, the shops promise well. It just shows what a little energy will accomplish.”

“With judicious nursing in the start, there should be plenty of work for us, and we are well equipped to handle it.”

“Yes,” agreed Cornish. “A lot of money was spent on the plant. I wanted it just right.”

“I can't understand why more hasn't been done with the opportunity here.”

“I've never been able to find the proper man to take hold, until I found you, Oakley. You have given me a better insight into conditions than I have had at any time since I built the road, and it ain't such a bad proposition, after all, especially the shops.” The general turned out the gas as he spoke, and Oakley, as he stood in the doorway of his own room, saw dimly a white figure moving in the direction of the bed.

“I'd figure close on all repair work. The thing is to get them into the habit of coming to us. Don't forget the call, please. Six-thirty sharp.”

The slats creaked and groaned beneath his weight. “Good-night.”