“Smoke! Smoke!” he called, as the white figure shot across the patch of light from the station doorway and vanished up the Tramworth road. Then he realized the futility of his recent action, and laughed. As the step on which he stood glided smoothly past the end of the platform, his attention was attracted to another figure, standing with mouth open and eyes gazing with an absurdly wistful expression toward the place where Smoke was last visible. It was the baggage-man, with a piece of broken cord in his hand.

“Cheer up, old man!” shouted David, as the train slipped past. Then he turned and entered the car. “Might have known Smoke wouldn’t lead just like a little woolly lamb on wheels. Hang it, though, what will Wallie say? Well, I’ve got the claim check for him, anyway.”

He found a seat near the end of the car, flung up the window and filled his pipe. “Couldn’t sleep if I tried, so I’ll just have it out with myself now. Then I’ll try the sleeper.”

Settling comfortably in the corner of the seat, he glanced down the aisle of the car through the smoky haze that blurred the lamps and swirled through the ventilators. The man across the aisle lay huddled in his seat, mouth open and head jogging as he slept. Near the middle of the coach four men were playing cards. The muscular impetuosity of the one who was leading his trumps with a flourish that suggested swinging a pickaxe amused David more than it offended by its uncouthness. He understood that type of man better than he had a year ago.

Through the murk came the winking eye of the conductor’s lantern.

“That your dog that broke loose?” he asked.

“Yes.” David handed him his ticket.

“Too bad. I saw him go. He just raised up and gave one jump. Shot out of the baggage before they could grab him.”

“I’m glad they didn’t try to grab him,” said David.

“From what I seen of him I guess that’s right. North Station? Eight-thirty.” He leaned across the aisle and shook the sleeping man’s arm. “Belvidere next stop. Your station.”

Ahead in the night sprang the parallel silver ribbons, the glistening rails that shot beneath the rocking Titan of steam and steel and wound smoothly away to nothing as the train thundered on. David could hear the humming wheels beneath him clack quickly over the switch-points of infrequent freight sidings and then the reËchoed roar as the train whirled between the forest walls, driving the long shaft of its head-light through the eerie gloom of the dripping woodlands.

He rapped the ashes from his pipe and closed the window. The scar above his temple throbbed and pained him. He passed his hand through his hair. His head felt hot, despite the chill that ran through his limbs. His hand trembled as he felt for his pipe again. “This won’t do,” he muttered. “Wonder what the dickens is the matter with me? I never felt this way before.”

Then he drew a memorandum book from his pocket and sat gazing into space, frequently jotting down figures. Soon he was completely absorbed in the intricacies of approximating roughly the cost of establishing a plant to mine the asbestos on Lost Farm. “Now if the N. M. & Q. crosses five miles below us, it’s going to make quite a difference. I doubt that a spur from Timberland would be practicable. Perhaps it’s a bluff—this new survey. Maybe the old survey was a bluff. Bascomb had it in his power to do as he pleased about that. Anyway, the stuff’s there and he wants it. If they were going to cross at Lost Farm, we should have received notice from their attorneys before this, that’s certain. Right of eminent domain would settle that. Well, we’ll stick to our guns and fight it out. It’s bully!” he exclaimed aloud. “It’s worth while; and if we win out, well, Swickey will have to change her first name, that’s certain. She will go to school, of course.” He tried to picture Swickey as a gracefully gowned young woman like—no, not like Elizabeth Bascomb. She could never be like Bessie; and yet—why should she be like any one but herself. The memory of Swickey’s last appeal came to him keenly; the pleading eyes, the parted lips—

He arose, opened the car door, lurched across the platform to the next car, where he dropped into a more comfortable seat, and pulling his hat-brim over his eyes, fell asleep.

Several hours later he awoke as the train rumbled over the reverberating timbers of the approach to Boston. He gazed sleepily through the misty window at the familiar environs of the city. He felt strangely uncomfortable and out of place as he stepped to the station platform and moved toward the gates with the shuffling crowd about him. The reek of oil and steam from the pulsating engine was particularly disagreeable. Several people glanced at him curiously as he came out on the street.

He shook himself together, and boarding a car sat gazing moodily at the opposite window. How flat and squalid the buildings appeared. How insignificant and how generally alike the people. They seemed to lack individuality and forcefulness, these pallid, serious-faced regulars of the civilian army of wage-getters. His native city had never appealed to him in this way before. It was vast, of course; but its vastness was a conglomeration of little things that produced the impression of size. The wide sweep of the hills about Lost Farm and the limitless horizon of the free woodland spaces came to him in sharp contrast, as he turned his thoughts to the present need that had brought him back to his home.

“A bath and a good sleep will straighten me out,” he thought.

As the car stopped beyond a cross-street he got off and walked toward a hotel.

“My baggage is at the North Station,” he told the clerk, as he registered and handed his checks to him. “Send it to my room when it comes.”

“That man’s sick,” said the clerk, as David disappeared in the ascending elevator. “Writes a good hand,” he remarked, turning the register toward him. “David Ross, Boston. Hum-m. But you can’t always judge by the clothes.”

About three o’clock that afternoon, David appeared at the hotel desk with a small parcel in his hand. “I shall be here a day or two, perhaps longer. I’m going to have a few things sent. You may have them put in my room.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the clerk, somewhat impressed by David’s manner. “I’ll send them right up.”

David strolled to the door and paused, gazing listlessly up and down the street. Then he stepped out, crossed the Common, and walked down the long hill toward his aunt’s house. When he arrived there the maid ushered him immediately to the cosy living-room.

“Miss Ross is out, Master David, but she expects you, and your room is ready.”

“I’ll step up for a minute,” he replied.

When he returned, attired in a quiet-colored business suit and fresh linen, he called the maid and told her he was going out for a few hours. “Tell Miss Ross I’ll be back to dinner if possible, but not to wait for me.”

“Yes, sir. Excuse me, Master David, but you don’t look fit to go out. You’re that pale I hardly knew you.”

“Oh, I’m all right. A little tired, that’s all. Don’t say anything of the kind to Aunt Elizabeth, though.”

Half an hour later he entered the private offices of Walter Bascomb, Sr., where he was received with a suave cordiality that left an unpleasant impression.

“Wallie is at the club,” said Bascomb, motioning him to a seat and offering him a cigar. Taking one himself, he leaned back in his ample chair and smoked, regarding David with speculative eyes that were bright but undeniably cold.

“Well,” he said, flicking the ash from his cigar, “how are you making it up in the woods?”

“Doing nicely, thank you.”

“Wallie has been telling me of your—er—occupation, your partnership with a certain Mr. Avery of Lost Farm.”

“Yes.”

“Like that kind of thing?”

“Better than I do this,” he replied, with a comprehensive gesture which might have been interpreted as embracing the city, the office, or themselves in particular.

“Yes?” The suavity of the tone did not disguise a shade of contempt. Bascomb swung round to his desk and drew a paper from one of the pigeon-holes.

“I’ve a proposition to make you, Ross.” He tossed his cigar away and turned to David again. “I have been elected president of a stock company, a concern interested in northern real estate. You understand about the Lost Farm tract and the N. M. & Q. Also my personal offer of twenty-five thousand for the land. Will you take it?”

“No,” replied David. “It’s worth more.”

“Well, I have to differ with you. But what I want to know is, have you any financial interest in that property, or are you simply acting as legal adviser to the present owner? In the first instance, I’m ready to make you a substantial offer in cash. In the second, I am ready to use my influence in securing an appointment for you on our advisory board. The position will carry a monthly compensation equal to that of our regular attorneys. We have splendid prospects of doing a business that will pay large and regular dividends. We are already capitalized for five hundred thousand; so you see,” he concluded, “we can handle the deal without much fear of competition from—a rival company, for instance.”

“May I ask what you intend to do with the land when you get it?” said David.

“Well, ahem! as to that—See here, Ross, I can trust you, as an old friend of the family, can’t I?”

“If you put it that way, yes,” replied David, “although I want you to know first that I’ve decided about the Lost Farm tract.”

Bascomb folded the paper he held and tapped the arm of his chair reflectively. “Well,” he said finally, “what’s your decision?”

“To keep the land.”

Bascomb wondered if Ross was bluffing for a higher figure, or whether his young friend knew the real value of the property.

“Very well, David. Now as to your question as to what we would do with the property if we purchased it. I don’t see that that is immediately relevant to my proposition. Of course Wallie has told you enough to make it clear that the N. M. & Q. will have to have the right-of-way on Lost Farm. My purchase of it has to do with that aspect of the situation.”

“Well, Mr. Bascomb, I’m afraid it’s impossible to come to an understanding.” Ross shrugged his shoulders.

“Now, don’t misunderstand me,” said Bascomb, bringing his palm down smartly on the arm of his chair. “The Northern Improvement Company make you the propositions I have outlined, through me, as president of that concern. The company is connected in no way with the N. M. & Q. It’s a straight business deal from start to finish.”

“I won’t contradict you there, Mr. Bascomb. You have no doubt legalized any prospective manoeuvres of the Improvement Company. However, I can’t accept either of your offers. As to my financial interest in the property, I have practically none. As Mr. Avery’s partner, I have assumed the responsibility of advising him. I thank you for your offer, however.”

“How much do you want for the land?” Bascomb’s eyes glittered behind his gold-rimmed glasses, but he maintained his easy professional smile.

“Not a cent. We’re not going to sell.”

“Come, now, Ross. I can bluff also,” replied Bascomb, forcing a laugh. “Name your figure.”

“I’ll do it if you’ll tell me—prove to me conclusively—that the N. M. & Q. is going through Lost Farm tract over the line of the first survey.”

Bascomb laughed easily. “There’s never anything absolutely certain about railroads, my son, but we didn’t spend twenty thousand on the first survey for nothing.”

“Merely as a matter of curiosity,” said David, “how much did the second survey cost?”

“The second survey? Oh, yes, I see,” he replied in a tone intended to emphasize the insignificance of that matter; “a little difference of opinion among the directors as to the best route, you know. There is no doubt in the world but that the Lost Farm approach to the bridge over the gorge is the better one. As I recall it, it cost merely a few days’ extra work—about twelve hundred dollars, I believe.”

“Thank you,” said David, rising and taking his hat.

Bascomb stared at him. Exasperation and surprise commingled in his gaze. Ross’s indifference was puzzling. He recovered himself immediately, however. “Oh, by the way, David, Walter said he wanted to see you. He’s probably at the club now; but if you don’t find him there, drop in this evening. We should all be glad to see you.”

“Thank you, but I’m not feeling quite up to it—a bit tired.” He stared stupidly at the elder man for a moment and a feverish flush burned in his face as he fumbled with the pocket of his coat. He drew out a small box and laid it on the office table. “It’s too heavy,” he muttered. “Can’t carry it.”

“What’s the matter, David?”

“Nothing at all, only I wish you would sit still and not keep waving your arms that way—it’s annoying.”

“You’re not well, David. Sit down a minute.”

“No, I want to get to Tramworth before night. It’s getting dark and it’s a devil of a road.”

Ross made no effort to go, but sat turning his hat round and round in his hands.

“I’ll call a carriage—”

Bascomb’s voice sounded like thunder in David’s ears and his figure seemed to dwindle to a pin-point, then tower to the ceiling.

“No!” shouted David, springing to his feet, “I’ll walk.” He started for the door, staggering against a chair which he flung out of his way, “No! I’ll walk.” Then he swung the door open and faced Bascomb. He flung out a trembling hand and pointed across the room. “No—but your man is a damned poor shot—and he’s dead—up there.”

Before Bascomb could recover from his astonishment, David turned and strode down the corridor. He stepped into the elevator, the door clanged shut, and before Bascomb’s ring was answered by the appearance of the ascending carriage, David was in the street, hurrying round corners in a vain attempt to flee from the blinding pain that he felt would become unbearable if he ceased walking.

Bascomb returned to his office. “He’s crazy—gone all to pieces. I thought he seemed queer when he came in. Well—” The little box on the table caught his eye. He picked it up, untied the string and opened it. “Aha!”

There were several samples of asbestos in the box.

He examined them, then replaced them carefully and tied up the box again. He pressed a button on his desk.

“William,” he said, as his office-boy appeared, “if a Mr. Ross should call when I am out, give him this box.”

Then Bascomb went to his desk and pulled the telephone toward him. “Livingstone,” he said, as he got his number, “this is Bascomb.... Yes, about the asbestos on Lost Farm. No, better come over here. I’ve got some new samples ... five-inch fibre.... Just wanted you to look at them.... Good-bye.”