SPEEDING that night toward Bayport, through the dark and the stars, Simeon Tetlow’s thoughts were often on the hoy. He was haunted by the wreck. It was shattered glass, and charred wood, and blood everywhere, and trampled grass and leaves.... But across the face of the wreck moved the hoy’s eyes as they had turned to him, following his train into the night.

With the boy again, he could do all that he had ever planned—and more. In spite of his harsh words, flung back as the train started, his heart was aglow. John was coming back to him and together they could work out the plan that held him.... He could not have told the plan to any one; it was hardly articulate, even to himself. He paced up and down the tawdry car, his hands, tense at his sides, opening and closing with the swift thought that crowded upon him. It had been coming to him through the months, while he had groped and wrestled alone. Slowly it had been forming deep below—shaping itself out of life—a vision of service. And today he had seen it stretching before him, unrolling its web of thought as the train tracked the fertile country. All day he had looked out upon wide fields, scarred and broken by late frosts, on orchards and meadows and stretches of plain, half-tilled; and always, in the distance, the mountains, filled to the brim with ore. It was a rich country, but starved, straitened—and no one knew better than the President of the “R. and Q.” road the cause of its poverty. Across its length and breadth stretched the road—like a great monster that sprawled, sucking its lifeblood. He had known it, always,—and he had not cared. Let the country take care of itself. There was always enough for the road—and for dividends. He had put them off, when they had come to him begging better rates—leniency in bad seasons. There was not a farmer, up and down the region, that did not know Simeon Tetlow. He had a name among them. “The road was not there for its health.” They knew his face as he said it, and they hated it. As he sped through the night, he seemed to feel it closing in upon him—a cloud of malevolence settling upon him from the hills, rising from the valleys, shutting in on every side—and he, alone in its midst, tracking the great country—his hand reaching out to grasp its wealth.... But not now. He had seen it in the slow days that lay behind—a new vision. Sitting alone in his high office, he had watched the great system stretching out—not to drain the wealth of the country, not the huge monster that battened on its strength, but a vital necessity—a thing of veins and arteries, the highway of its life current—without which life itself must cease altogether or run feeble and clogged. The great imagination that could think a railroad into existence had brooded on the picture, sitting alone in its high office, watching the system stretching away, branching in every direction, lighting up the surrounding hills. And today, when the Boy had said he would come back, the man had known that the picture would come true.

The porter had brought in his supper, placing it noiselessly before him on the table, but the president of the road had pushed it from him, leaning a little forward, gazing at the picture that glowed and filled the horizon. He drew his hand hastily across his eyes and the porter moved forward.

“Supper, sah.”

“Yes—yes.” But he did not stir. His eyes were fixed on the dark window, staring into the night.

The porter reached out a hand to draw down the blind, but the president stayed him with a smile.

“Let it he, Sam. I am ready now.”

He ate with quick, nervous motion, his eyes still on the window. Glimmers of light from the hills struck across it—towns glinted and sparkled and slipped into the night. The eyes followed them eagerly—each gleam of light, each flash of power. It was a new country—his country. It should Be what he chose to make it—a fertile land.

The supper had been removed and the porter had set down the box of cigars on the table and withdrawn to his own place. The train rumbled through the night with swift shrieks and long, sliding rushes of sound. The president of the road reached out for a cigar. But the hand that held the lighted match trembled and whirred. He threw it aside, with an impatient sound, and struck another, taking the light with quick, tense puffs. It caught the spark and glowed. He dropped the match upon its tray. There was a look in his eyes that was half fear. He had been a man of iron—but the iron was shaken, shattered.... They threw the worn-out engine on the scrap-heap.... But not yet—Give him a year, two years, to make the dream come true. He saw the country bud and blossom and fling its promise on the air. In the ground he heard the grass grow, creeping. The grain beneath the mold could not move its silken filaments so lightly that his ear did not catch the sound; and from the mountains the ore called, loud and free, knocking against its walls. The mountains opened their great sides, and it poured down into the valleys—wealth for all the world—It should come true.... Time and strength—and John!

The cigar had gone out and he tossed it aside, throwing himself on the red cushions and staring at the ceiling that swayed to the swift run of the engine. Then he closed his eyes and the boy’s face was before him, smiling. He slept fitfully. The train rumbled and jarred through his sleep, but always with its song of iron courage.

VIII

THERE were no dreams in the eyes of the President of the “R. and Q.” road the next morning. The office was a chaos of papers; they lay on the desk and on chairs, and covered the floor. “When John opened the door and stepped in, the president was running distracted fingers through his hair and diving into the chaos. He came up with a grunt.

“I wish you’d find that statement the C. B. and L. sent last month—and be quick about it!”

With a smile the boy hung up his hat and went down on his knees into the chaos, filing, selecting, discarding, with the old care.

Simeon returned to his desk, growling. He took up the telephone receiver and put it to his ear, his scowl alert for blunders.... “What?—No!—You ’ve copied that wrong—The last one—yes.... Tomlinson, I said—not Thompson—Oh, Lord! Tomlin—L-i-n...”

John slipped quietly from the room. At the door marked with the bronze token, “President’s Office,” he paused. The typewriters clattered merrily within and through the ground glass he caught a haze of pompadours rising against the light. He opened the door and looked in. The young women at the typewriters did not look up—except with their shoulders. The one by the large window scowled fixedly at her machine, her fingers fidgeting and thumping the keys. Her mouth wore a look of fine scorn and her blue eyes glinted.

John returned to the outer office. The head bookkeeper looked up with a nod. “Morning, John. Moving along up above!”

The boy nodded a slow reply. “Where is Edith?” he said.

“Oh—Edith?” The man thought a moment with pen suspended. The light from the hanging bulb fell on his lined face. “Edith? Oh, yes. Congdon took her. Billing-room, I guess. Back to stay?”

“Not for long.” The boy had disappeared through the swinging door at the end of the room.

The young man seated at another desk in the room followed him with curious glance. “Who is that?” he asked, turning a little on his stool and staring at his companion.

The head bookkeeper nodded absently. “That is John Bennett.” His finger was on the column, tracing a blunder to its source.

“And who in hell is John Bennett?” demanded the other slowly.

“You ’ll find out—if you stay long enough,” replied the head bookkeeper pleasantly. He placed his finger on the column and jotted figures on the little pad at his side. He laid aside the pad. “He ’s Simeon Tetlow’s shadow,” he said. “The two Bridgewater boys over there by the window.” He nodded his head. “They call him ’Sissie Johnny.’”

“Looks like a fool and acts like Lord of Creation,” muttered the other.

“That ’s what he is,” said the head bookkeeper. He had no time for conversation just then. He was close on the track of his mistake. Moreover, the assistant bookkeeper was a thorn in his side. The appointment had been none of his—one of old man Tetlow’s blunders, he called it savagely when he had time to talk.

The assistant bookkeeper took up his pen, looking at it musingly. He knew, perhaps better than the head bookkeeper, to what he owed his appointment. Six months ago he had been in the employ of the rival road. Just why he had left them was his own affair, as were also the wires that had been pulled in his behalf along the “R. and Q.” Well, he was here. He had gathered much interesting information in his six months—information that might be valuable—very valuable—some day. He dipped his pen in the ink.... As for this John Bennett.... The pens were both at work now, flying fast.

“You want Edith?” Congdon, the head billing-clerk, looked up from his file of bills with a little scowl; it changed slowly to pleasure. “Why, how are you, John? Did n’t know you were back... Edith—Well, yes, I took her—wanted another hand here. Marshall said they could spare one from the office. So I took the littlest.” He smiled genially.

“Littlest and best,” said John.

The other laughed out. “I began to suspect it—The old man wants her back?”

“Right off.”

Congdon turned a little in his place. “Oh, Edith!” He raised his voice and the girl across the room looked up.

He beckoned to her and she came slowly, leaving her machine with a little touch that was almost a pat, as if it said, “Coming back very soon.”

“Yes, sir.” She stood before them waiting, a slight, dark girl, with clear glance.

“Ah,” the man’s eyes dwelt on her kindly. “They want you back in the office, Edith. You need n’t stop to finish.—I ’ll put some one else on those.”

She turned away with a look that was almost a smile of pleasure. Half way to her table she paused and came back. “I can take my machine, can’t I?”

He laughed tolerantly. “Oh, take it along, if you want to—Nobody else wants it.”

John followed her to the table. “I ’ll carry it for you, Edith.”

She slipped out the paper she had been at work on and began gathering up the trifles from her table.

When he set down the machine in the president’s office, a ripple of eyebrows passed it by—glances too busy for comment. The clatter of the typewriters rose and hummed. The hive could not pause for a worker more or less. She slipped into her place with a little smile and nod, waiting while John shifted the telephone connection and swung a bulb, with its green shade, conveniently in place.

The little bell rang sharply and she leaned to the receiver. “Hello!”

John crossed to the young woman by the window. She had finished a sheet and was drawing it out with a quick swirl.

“All done?” he asked pleasantly.

She ignored him, rubbing out an offending word and blowing away the black fuzz before she looked up. “What is it?” she said sharply. Her hair, which was red and crisp, glinted as she turned her head.

John’s eyes followed it with a little look of pleasure. There was something about that color that always made him happy. He did not know this and it had never occurred to him to be diplomatic. But a hint of a smile crossed the girl’s mouth.

“Well?” She was looking at him tolerantly.

He drew a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “These are to be copied—leaving blanks here, and here—Send a boy when they are done. He wants two carbons—very clear.”

“All right.” She took them from him with a look of relief. It might be an honor to take down ’the old man’s dictation, but it was an honor she could dispense with. She fluffed her fingers toward the glinting hair and descended on the keys.

John stood for a moment, looking thoughtfully at the crisping hair in the wide window-light. The girl had turned her head a little and it twinkled, but did not look up.

As he crossed the room, he glanced casually at the new occupant. Her head was bent to the receiver and a little smile played about her lips. “Yes—yes—yes?—yes.” Her fingers moved quickly and she nodded once or twice as if listening to something pleasant. “She likes to work for him,” thought John, “same as I do.”

With a look of satisfaction on his round face he closed the office door behind him. He had accomplished, without a jar, what perhaps no other man in the service could have done. But he was not thinking of this—he hardly knew it. He was planning what Simeon should have for luncheon—something hot and staying....

He reached out a hand to a boy who was hurrying toward the elevator. “Hold up, Sandy. What’s that?”

“A note for the president.” It was the tone of pride.

John smiled a little as he held out his hand. “I ’ll take it to him—and here—” The hoy’s face had fallen, “Take this—” He wrote hastily on a pad—“Carry that, one o’clock sharp, to the Holman House. They ’ll give you a luncheon for the president. Sprint, won’t you?”

“You bet.” The smile was stealing back to the boyish face.

John nodded. “Bring it up yourself—set it on the box by the door—not later than one, mind.”

The boy nodded and was gone, tucking the note in his pocket. It did not occur to him to question the authority of this slow-moving young man—hardly more than a boy himself.

It did not occur to any one to question it, as he made his way in a sort of slow-looking, fast fashion about the building, doing the things, little and big, that came to his hand. One did not think of the boy apart from his eyes. It was as if a spirit dwelt there, guiding the slowness and sureness, and men yielded to it, as they yield to the light when it shines on them.

If the boy had known his power or guessed it, it would have vanished, slipped from him, even while he put out his hand to it. But he had always been slow and stupid—not clever like other boys—and needing time and patience for his work. He knew that it rested his mother to have him do things for her, and that Simeon Tetlow needed him. Beyond that his mind did not travel. He could not have told how he knew men’s thoughts—read their minds, almost, when their eyes looked into his—any more than he could have told why certain colors made him happy, or why he had chosen Edith Burton out of the office force for Simeon’s private work. Things came to him slowly. He stood motionless, sometimes, waiting—almost stupidly, it seemed—before a piece of work, a decision to be made—but when he put out his hand to it, he held it with firm grasp.

Simeon did not look up when he came back. He was speaking into the telephone, a look of comparative peace on his face.

John swept aside the heap of bills and memoranda that covered the desk across the room. Then he looked about for the dust-cloth. He found it in the pocket of one of Simeon’s old coats on the wall. A piece of cheese fell to the floor as he shook it out. And Simeon, looking around as he hung up the receiver, smiled for the first time in weeks.

“So that ’s where I put that cheese, is it? I got it one day for luncheon—forgot where I put it—did n’t have any luncheon that day at all.” He was looking at it regretfully.

John tossed it into the waste basket, a look of disapproval in his face. He wiped the dust from his desk, arranging the files of papers he had collected from the floor and placing them in pigeon-holes.

Simeon watched, a look of something like contentment creeping to his face. “You found that statement yet?” The question was almost mild.

“Yes, sir.” John picked up the paper and handed it to him. “They ’ve made double charge on those forty boilers, have n’t they?” Simeon took it and glared at it. “That ’s what I can’t find out,” he said. “I can’t find out.” He sighed impatiently and laid it on the desk while he reached for another set of papers.

John, watching the face, was struck anew by the weariness in it. It was the face of an old man.

He held out his hand. “Suppose I take it, sir. I ’ll be down in the yard this afternoon and I ’ll look it up.”

There was a sound of jingling glass outside the partition.

John stepped quickly to the door.

“Here, Sandy. Take this to McElwain in the yard. Tell him I ’ll be down in half an hour.—Here ’s your luncheon, sir.” He brought in the tray and placed it on the table, setting a chair before it and drawing the cork from the bottle. He removed the napkin that covered the tray. “Your luncheon ’s ready, sir.”

With a sigh of satisfaction, the President of the “R. and Q.” Road rose from his desk.

“There’s a fresh towel, sir, and I brought up some soap.”

With another sigh, the president of the road obeyed.

---