SIMEON was tearing open his morning’s mail, fussing and growling. “There ’s another—” He tossed it to John.

The young man read it without comment. It was from the farmers of Elk Horn County—the second within a month—accusing the road of keeping back cars to force up rates.

“They’ve had their share,” grumbled Simeon from his mail.

“More, too,” said John. He scowled his brow a little. “No. 8 brought in thirty-five empties yesterday,” he said slowly.

Simeon wheeled a little, “Where to?”

“Somers—most of them.”

“And Somers shall have ’em,” said Simeon. He wheeled back again. “Let the Elk Horners run a road of their own. They know so much. Let their press agent get at it—Make cars out o’ wind and haul ’em with talk.” He plunged again into the mail, tearing and gritting his way through. Suddenly there was silence in the room—A long hush—

The young man looked around.

The president of the road was huddled a little forward, his eyes on a letter that his shaking hands tried in vain to steady.

John stepped quickly to his side. But the man did not look up. His eyes seemed glued to the few lines that covered the page. When the shaking hand dropped to the desk, he sat staring at nothing where the lines had been.

John went out noiselessly and mixed an egg and placed it beside him. He knew from the look in Simeon’s face that he had not slept, and he guessed that he had had no breakfast.

“You ’d better take this, sir,” he said quietly.

Simeon’s hand groped a little toward it and drew back. “I tell you I can’t see him,” he said sharply.

“Who is it, sir?”

“Nixon—” He touched the paper beside him. “He wants to talk over rates. I tell you I can’t see him—I can’t!” It was almost a cry.

The young man took up the letter. “Perhaps you won’t need to, sir.” His slow eyes were on the words. “It’s only the rates,” he said thoughtfully.

“Do you believe it?” The president of the road leaned toward him a little, hissing the words at him. “He says what he wants is an appointment for seeing me!” He lifted the haggard face, the bitter laugh drawing back the thin lips from his teeth. “What do you think our stock ’d be worth the next day? I tell you it ’s a trap!” He lifted his shaking hand. He looked at the light through it. “He wants to see me!” he repeated bitterly. “Let him come,” he said shrilly; “let him—” The hand dropped to the desk. “I ’ve lost my nerve, John!” he whispered helplessly. “I’ve lost my nerve!”

“Better take your egg, sir,” said John.

Simeon reached out blindly and gulped it down. His hand quivered as he wiped the little yellow line from his lips.

John’s eyes were on his face—“Had you thought of seeing Dr. Blake?” he asked.

The hand paused in mid air. “Yes—I’d—thought—of that.”

The young man picked up the letter. “Wednesday ’s Nixon’s day, is n’t it? Why not see Dr. Blake Wednesday?”

The man leaned forward. “What about Nixon?”

“I ’ll see Nixon, sir,” said John.

Simeon stared at him a minute—“What would you say to him!”

“I don’t know—yet.”

Simeon stared again. Then he chuckled a little. “I believe you could,” he said grimly. “He ’d go away thinking I was a prizefighter!”

John’s hand rested lightly on the shaking one, holding it firm, and his eyes were on the quivering, driven face. “He ’d go away thinking the truth, sir—that you are a big man.”

Simeon smiled a little shame-facedly, drawing away the hand. “I ’m a big fool,” he said shortly. “There is n’t a bigger anywhere—except you!”

The young man’s face expressed content. “You will see Dr. Blake?”

“I ’ll see Blake—yes.” The shadow had returned again to his face, blotting out hope. He had drawn a sheet of paper toward him.

“I ’ll see Blake if you want me to. But Blake can’t help—”

“Blake can, if anybody can,” said John stoutly.

“If anybody can—yes.” It was a half whisper. He was writing wearily, like an old man. Presently the pen stopped and he sat staring before him.... A little look of hope stole into the set face. He took up his cheque-book and filled in a cheque in his fine, scrawling hand.

He looked around. The young man was hard at work. He waited a minute, impatient. Then he spoke, hesitating a little between the words, “Oh—John—?”

“Yes, sir.” He came across.

“I thought you might like to make a present—to your friend Tomlinson?” He was holding out the slip of paper indifferently.

The youth looked down. It was a cheque for a thousand dollars. His face lighted with a quick smile. “It looks as if you were the friend,” he said.

“Tomlinson ’s no friend of mine,” said Simeon gruffly. “But you can send it.”

“It shall go today, sir.” He was moving away.

Simeon’s hand reached out to him. “It ’s to come from you, you understand?”

The young man paused. He shook his head slowly. “He knows we have n’t a cent in the world.”

“Make it from the directors then—for services rendered.” He laughed—a little bitterly.

“Yes, sir—from the directors—for services rendered.” John wrote the letter and sent it. But he knew that the cheque that went with it was not recorded on the books of the “R. and Q.” Road.

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