It was midnight when Jim Weeks reached Tillman City. The next morning at breakfast he recognized Mr. McNally, and though he nodded pleasantly, his thoughts were not the most amicable. He knew that McNally meant mischief, and he also knew that McNally's mischief could be accomplished only through one man, Michael Blaney. Heretofore Blaney had not troubled Jim. Jim's power and his hold on Tillman City affairs had combined to inspire the lesser dictator with awe, and in order to obtain concessions it had been necessary only to ask for them. Jim never dealt direct with Blaney. The councilman to whom he intrusted his measures was Bridge, leader of the pro-pavers. Jim had won him by generosity in transportation of paving supplies. But when Jim left the hotel that morning he wasted no time on minority leaders. Bridge was useful to prepare and introduce ordinances, but was not of the caliber for big deals, so Jim ordered a carriage and drove direct to Blaney's house. Although the hour was early, the politician was not at home. His wife, a frail little woman, came to the door and extended a flexible speaking trumpet that hung about her shoulders.

“No,” she said in reply to Jim's question, “he's down on the artesian road watching a job. He won't be back till noon.”

The road in question leads from the city to the artesian well a few miles away. Jim turned his horses and went back through the town and out toward the country. He found Blaney just inside the city limits, sitting on a curb and overseeing two bosses and a gang of laborers, who were tearing up the macadam with the destructive enthusiasm of the hired sewer digger.

“How are you, Blaney?” called Jim, pulling up.

Blaney nodded sourly. He was a man of bullying rather than of tactful propensities and he could not conceal his distaste for an interview with Jim Weeks at this particular moment. To tell the truth, he had begun to fear the results of the agreement with McNally which rested in his coat pocket. Weeks was a hard man to fight, and wasted no words on disloyalty. However, Blaney knew that dissimulation would profit him nothing, for to keep the changed vote a secret would be impossible; so he squared himself for a row. Jim tied his horses to a sapling and sat beside him, remarking,—

“I want to have a talk with you.”

“Haven't got much time,” replied Blaney, making a show of looking at his watch.

Jim smiled meaningly.

“You've got all the time I need. I want to know what you're up to with our stock.”

Blaney gazed at the laborers.

“Here!” he called to a lazy Irishman, “get back there where you belong!”

“Come now, Blaney, talk business.”

“What do you want to know about that stock?”

“How are you going to vote it?”

“I guess I can vote it.”

“Are you going to stick to me?”

“I don't know whether I am or not. I'll do what the Council directs.”

Jim gave him a contemptuous glance.

“Don't be a fool, Blaney.”

“See here,” said Blaney, rising; “what are you trying to do?”

Jim rose too.

“You've answered my question,” he replied. “You think you can throw me out.”

“I ain't throwing anybody out,” muttered Blaney. He walked away and stood looking at the trench in the street which the men had sunk shoulder deep. Jim followed.

“I'm not through yet, Blaney.”

“I haven't got time to talk with you,” blustered the contractor. Jim stood a moment looking him over. Blaney's eyes were fixed on the Irishman.

“How much did he give you?” asked Jim, quietly.

Blaney whirled around.

“Look out,” he said. “I don't know what you're talking about, but a man can't say that to me.” His fists were clenched. Jim spoke without emotion.

“Drop it,” he said. “I'm not here for my health. I knew all that some hours ago. If I couldn't work it any better than you've done, I'd quit. Now what I want you to do, Blaney—”

“See here, you've said enough!” Blaney was excited. “You can't come around here and bulldoze me. We've bought that stock and we'll vote it as we like, damn it; and you can go to hell!”

Jim looked at him thoughtfully; then he went to his buggy and drove back to the hotel. He saw that Blaney was frightened, but he evidently was too thoroughly bought up to be easily shaken. With what some men called his “gameness” Jim dropped Blaney from his mind for the moment, and began to plan for a desperate counter move. Before he reached the hotel the move was decided upon, and Jim was placid.

The next man to see was Bridge. Jim paused at the hotel long enough to send a message to the station agent to have a special ready in fifteen minutes; then he went to the office of his lieutenant.

Bridge was an architect with a yearning for politics. For several years he had tried to keep both irons in the fire, and as a result was not over-successful in either. But he was a shrewd, silent man, and could be trusted. Jim found him designing a stable.

“Sit down, Mr. Weeks. What brings you to Tillman?”

“Bad business,” responded Jim, shortly. “Blaney's sold out to the C. & S.C.”

Mr. Bridge sat upon his table and said nothing. When taken by surprise Mr. Bridge usually said nothing; that is why he had risen to the leadership of a faction.

“I don't know just what's happened,” Jim went on, “but there's trouble ahead.”

“Does Blaney say he's going to vote against you?”

“No,” said Jim, “but he gave himself away.”

“Can you block him?”

Jim passed over the question.

“I wish you'd watch him, Bridge. There's a deal on, and Frederick McNally is the other party. He's for C. & S.C. of course. Do you know him?”

Bridge shook his head.

“Well, never mind. I'll watch him. But you worry Blaney. He's a little rattled now,—I reckon McNally's soaked him,—and if you're careful you ought to find out something. I want to know just how they've fixed it.”

Bridge nodded.

“I'll keep an eye on him.”

“Well,”—Jim rose,—“I've got a train to catch. Good-by.”

He drove rapidly to the station; the agent hurried toward him as he pulled up at the platform.

“I only got your message this minute, Mr. Weeks,” he said; “there isn't a car in the yards.”

“What's that?” Jim looked at his watch. “Got an engine?”

“Only the switch engine.”

“I'll take that.”

The agent hesitated.

“You wouldn't get through before next week,” he said. “There's a couple of passenger engines in the roundhouse, but they ain't fired.”

The telegraph operator leaned out of the window and broke into the conversation.

“Murphy's firing the big eleven for sixteen from Truesdale. You might take that.”

“Got a good man to run it?” asked Jim.

“Jawn Donohue's on the switch engine,” replied the operator. “He knows the road.”

Jim dimly remembered the name Donohue. Somewhat more than a year before his manager had reduced a man of that name for crippling an engine on a flying switch.

“He's the best man you could get, Mr. Weeks,” said the agent, and turning, he ran down the platform toward the freight house. Jim called after him:—

“He's got to connect at Manchester with the twelve o'clock for Chicago.”

Jawn's dumpy little engine was blowing off on a siding. Jawn was oiling. He was a short man, filling out his wide overalls with an in-'em-to-stay appearance. His beard was brushy, his eyes were lost in a gray tangle of brows and lashes, and he chewed the stem of a cob pipe.

“Jawn,” said the agent, excitedly, “get eleven up to the platform quick!”

Jawn turned around, lowered the oil-can, and looked at the nervous agent with impassive eyes.

“Why?” he said slowly.

“You've got to connect with Manchester at twelve o'clock.”

Jawn replaced his pipe.

“Wait till I kick them empties in on the house track. Who's it for?”

“Don't stop for that! It's the President!”

Jawn grunted, and walked deliberately across the tracks and into the roundhouse, followed by his fireman. Murphy, the hostler, was hovering about the big throbbing locomotive, putting a final polish on the oil-cups and piston-rods. Jawn, without a word, climbed into the cab, and out over the tender, where he lifted the tank lid and peered down at the water.

“Never mind that,” the agent called. “You can water up at Byron.”

Jawn slowly clambered over the coal and leaned against the doorway, packing the tobacco firmly into his pipe with his fire-proof little finger.

“Young man,” he said gruffly, “I run this engine for four years without taking water between here and Manchester, and I reckon I can do it agin.” Then he pulled her slowly out of the roundhouse.

In the meantime, the operator had sent this message to the train despatcher at Manchester:—

To which the despatcher replied:—

When the engine finally rolled into the station Jim was pacing up and down; he was as nearly impatient as Jim Weeks could be.

“You'll have to move faster than that,” he said shortly, swinging himself up the steps.

Jawn glanced at him without reply, then looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes after ten. He laid his hand upon the throttle and pulled. There was a gasp of steam, a whirring and slipping of the drive wheels, and the engine plunged forward. Jawn fingered the lever with a lover's caress. He knew old “eleven,” every foot of her, every tube, bolt, and strap. As they cleared the yards, he threw her wider and wider open until she was lunging and lurching madly. The cinders beat a tattoo upon the cab, and Jim Weeks crowded up into the corner. The fireman, a strapping young fellow, threw in great shovels of coal with the regularity of a machine, pausing only to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand as the heat grew intense. When he opened the furnace door, Jim could see the glowing bed lift and stir with the jolt of the engine.

Old Jawn, perched upon his high seat, never shifted his eyes from the track ahead. His face wore the usual scowl, but betrayed no emotion. Perhaps his teeth gripped the pipe-stem harder than usual, but then, it was a pregnant hour for Jawn. The feel of the old pet under his hand made his heart jump, and brought the hope that a successful run might lead him back to his own. Jawn knew that he deserved something better than a switch engine in the division yards, he knew that he was the best engineer on the road, but he had steeled himself against hope. As they whirled past the mile-posts his emotion grew. He felt that the President was watching him closely, and he coaxed the steel thing into terrific speed. The cab grew hotter and hotter. Jim loosened his grip on the seat long enough to unbutton his collar and to twist his handkerchief around his neck. The fireman was dripping, but Jawn sat immovable as marble. They whirled past little stations with a sudden roar. At Brushingham a passenger train lay on the siding. There was a mottled flash of yellow, then they were by, and for an instant Jawn smiled. He hadn't passed Jack Martin like that for years.

Then they struck the hills. Up with a snort, over with a groan, and down with a rumble and slide, they flew. Here Jawn's eyes shifted to the water gauge. Jim locked one arm around the window post, and sat with eyes fixed on his watch. The minute hand crept around to eleven, passed it, and on to five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. At thirty-five clusters of cottages began to shoot by. Jawn's arm began to straighten—the roar diminished a trifle. Thirty-seven they passed rows of coal-laden flat cars; thirty-nine, they slackened through a tangle of tracks; forty-one, the big engine rolled under the train shed and stopped in a cloud of steam.

Jim stepped down and stretched himself. The fireman had staggered back into the tender, and lay in a heap, fanning himself with his cap. Jawn took a final glance at the water gauge, then he swung around and removed his cold pipe.

“Mr. Weeks,” he said gruffly, “I brung ye a hundred and three mile in eighty-one minutes. There ain't another man on the line could 'a' done it. I reckon that's why there's nothing for me but a switch engine.” Without waiting for a reply he seized an oil-can and swung out of the cab. Jim followed in silence, and hurried away with a grim smile.

At two-thirty Jim was in his Chicago office. For some time he was closeted with Myers, treasurer of the road, then he closed his desk and went out. He spent an hour with Spencer, a capitalist and an M. & T. director. From four to six he was locked in his office, going through his various collateral securities. At six he locked his office and went home with a feeling of relief. The battle was on, and Jim was ready. There would be a meeting at his house that evening between Spencer, Myers, and himself; not a long meeting, but one productive of results.