The paralyzing news had lain in the faithful keeping of a confidential operator and the white faced secretary who had guarded it jealously. The latter followed to the private office. When the door was closed in his face, he went to his own desk and sat blindly at his letters. Clark stood at a big window that commanded the rapids. Deep lines were furrowed suddenly on his face, and his eyes were like sunken bits of cold, gray steel. He felt the gentle vibration of the mills, and through it pierced the words of the telegram like a thin sharp voice that would not be denied. It was fully an hour later that his call sounded for the secretary.

"The rail mill will be closed shortly for temporary alteration. If you are asked anything about it—and you will be—that is all you know. This means that the furnaces must be blown down. I don't anticipate any serious delay. You will repeat this telegram to Philadelphia, and add that I will report more fully in the next twenty-four hours. There's just one thing more. A good deal of importance will attach to your manner and attitude for the next few days. That's all."

The young man nodded, finding it difficult to speak. There was nothing unusual about his leader, except that the eyes were a little more deep set, the voice a shade harder.

A few moments later, Clark stood in the rail mill watching the titanic rolls spew out ribbons of glowing steel. It came over him in a sickening flood that the whole giant undertaking was useless, and instead of the supreme delight he experienced a few months before there was now but a huge mechanical travesty that flouted the unremitting strain and effort of years. He was defacing the everlasting hills with dynamite to make something the commercial world did not want. A surge of protest overcame his spirit, followed by a cynical contempt for the futility of the best efforts of man. Impatiently he walked up to the superintendent of the mill.

The latter touched a grimy hat. "We're on the last ten thousand tons for the United," he said with a note of pride—"the mill's running fine."

"It may be," snapped Clark acidly, "but shut it down. Your rails are no good."

The other man blinked at him. "Eh?"

"Do what you're told," repeated Clark with the least shake in his dominant voice. "The United doesn't want these rails, though some one else will."

Over the superintendent's sooty face crept a look of blank amazement. "Shut down! why?" he floundered helplessly. "I can't, till this heat is through, and there's nothing the matter with the rails."

"Other people say there is, so get the heat through and obey orders."
Then, with sudden anger, "Is the job too big for you?"

He turned away abruptly, passing the whirling flywheel, the ponderous cylinders, the glowing ovens, while above him the traveling crane moved like a whining monster across the blackened roof. He hastened, desirous of getting out of the presence of these giants whom he had assembled only in order that they might deride him with their massive proportions.

So on to the towering masses of the furnaces. Here he saw poured a molten charge, and stood fascinated, as always, by the smooth and deadly gleam of molten metal, till, curtly, the same orders were issued. No further charges should be fed in before orders to that effect. Then back to his office, where he cancelled shipments of coke, and sent to the iron mine a curt word that stilled the boom of dynamite and silenced the sharp chatter of the drills.

Gradually through the works spread the chilling news. A slowly thickening stream of Swedes, Poles and Hungarians filed out of the big gates, and Ironville was, in mid-afternoon, populated with a puzzled multitude that repaired automatically to the saloons. Through pulp mills and machine shops, through power and pumping stations, the story went, growing as rapidly as it spread. Time keepers heard it and office clerks, and the crews of tugs and steamships that lay at the big dock below the works. And while rumors were widening every minute, there was a knock at Clark's door and, looking up, he saw the comptroller who stood quietly, with a check for the week's payroll in his hand.

"How much?" The voice was admirably impersonal.

"One hundred and ten thousand." The comptroller was a short fat man, and at the moment quivering with suppressed excitement.

The general manager scribbled his initials on the blue slip, handed it back without a word, and did not even look up as the official went out. A few minutes later he walked slowly through the pulp mill, stopping here and there to speak to superintendents and workmen. The swishing rasp of the great stones and the steady rumble of turbines brought him a sense of comfort. He progressed deliberately, and with his usual keen interest, so that, although hundreds of eyes followed him, not a man could assume that anything had gone seriously wrong. It was an hour in which he found and radiated confidence. Here, at least, was the universal conclusion that all was as it should be. He was on the bank of the power canal when his secretary approached again.

"What is it this time?"

"Hobbs is at the bank with the payroll check, and has just telephoned up. I think you'd better speak to him, sir."

Clark's lips pressed tight and his eyes opened a little. Retracing his steps, he listened to an agitated voice.

"Mr. Brewster states he has no authority to cash this check unless we cover our overdraft. He would like to talk to you."

"Let him."

Again the receiver spoke, while Clark's face grew suddenly very grim.
"I think you'd better come up and see me," he said shortly.

Then he listened. "Very well," he snapped. His features were like a mask. "I'm going down to the bank," he went on dryly to the secretary, "for the first time in his life Mr. Brewster is unable to leave his office and come up to mine when invited."

He drove into St. Marys followed by the glances of every man and woman who caught sight of the erect figure. The town was full of confused and conflicting rumors, but nothing had as yet crystallized. The appearance of Clark in mid afternoon at the door of the bank, thickened the air. It was known that people with whom he did business invariably went to him. Not in years had he been to Brewster. But for all of that he seemed as cheerful as usual, and took off his gray hat to Mrs. Worden with accustomed and somewhat formal urbanity. Inside he found Hobbs, his round, soft face looking unhealthily pallid, and Brewster with his jaw stuck out, a determined expression on his young features.

"Well, what's the trouble?"

"Nothing very serious." Brewster spoke with a pleasant accent, but he was confronting the most difficult hour of his life. "Just this check."

"What about it?"

"I can't make any further advances till your present acceptances are met in Philadelphia. We have half a million of them."

"That payroll has got to be disbursed."

"I'm sorry, but I can't cash that check."

The lines on the older man's face tightened and deepened. "Mr. Brewster, we have spent some fifteen millions of capital through your bank. This amount is too small to discuss. Do you realize that, if you persist, the men will go unpaid for the first time in seven years?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't help that." The young manager began to feel more fortified.

"Is this because there's a temporary interruption at the rail mill?" said Clark bitterly. "You're assuming a big responsibility."

"I regret that I can give no reasons, and am only doing what seems best in the interest of the bank. If the acceptances are met,—and the first falls due two weeks from to-day—our head office will probably authorize a further advance, provided we are secured. Under the circumstances your Philadelphia office should take care of this matter."

"And this is your last word?" snapped Clark with emphasis.

But Brewster had by this time completely pulled himself together. The most trying moment was passed, and for once the mesmeric influence had failed. He felt behind him the authority of Thorpe and his own directors, and revolted at the thought of imperiling his own record.

"You understand," came in Clark's voice, "what happens when men are not paid—especially the type of many of our employees. The Swede and Hungarian are apt to be ugly. Further—an unpaid payroll has a bad effect on a company's securities, to say nothing of the effect on business confidence in St. Marys. You have, of course, weighed all this."

Brewster's eyes were very grave and his face flushed. "I'm sorry, but
I'm doing what I take to be my duty," he said with a desperate effort.

The older man's mood changed as though in a flash. "In that case I've nothing more to say." He got up. "Come on, Hobbs, Mr. Brewster seems immovable. We'll have to wire Philadelphia for the money." With that he went briskly out.

The banker looked after him in wonderment. The poignant instant was over, and he pondered whether, after all, he had done right. His cipher message sent to Toronto as soon as the news from the works reached him, was still unanswered, but, he reflected, he had tried to act on what he believed to be Thorpe's judgment as well as his own. Should the telegram for which he waited not confirm his decision, there was time enough to apprise Clark of the fact that night. And just then the mayor entered the office and sat down, mopping his face.

"What about it?" he demanded presently.

"I don't know any more than you do—possibly not as much."

"Well," said Filmer absently, "there's a lot going round. Some have it the works are seized for debt, others that there's a mistake in the rails, others that the Philadelphia directors have resigned. Anyway half the thing seems to have stopped."

"Not half of it, just the iron and steel section."

"Yes, but that's the big end of the whole show. It was expected to carry the burden."

"It's still there, isn't it?" said Brewster fretfully.

The mayor glanced at him quickly. Something in the voice suggested that the bank was involved and that the thing was getting on Brewster's nerves. "I hope you're all right," he answered evenly, "but I'm carrying more stuff than I like to think of just now."

He departed feeling quite obviously rather balked of his desire for inside information. Just outside he met Dibbott.

"I saw Mr. Clark just now," said the latter. "He doesn't seem at all worried. Of course you've heard the news?"

Filmer nodded. "Yes, and I've a feeling we're going to hear more before long. Haven't got any Consolidated stock have you?"

"Stock! Never owned a share in my life, but I've a good mind to sell my place now while the price is up. Look at that, will you!"

The street cars coming down from the works were bulging with the population of Ironville, who had inconsequently decided to take the holiday in St. Marys. Hundreds of them were dressed in Sunday best and bent on an outing; big Slovaks and Poles whose horny fists gripped the platform rail while they smoked cheap cigars with gaudy labels and chattered volubly to each other. It was good to be out of Ironville.

On the way down they passed Clark, and with boyish abandon waved their hats in greeting, Clark smiled back and whirled on. The sight of them provoked the question in his mind and brought it closer. What if these men were not paid next week, as they were promised? Returning to his office, he devoted himself to innumerable details affecting the iron works. To shut them down was not so simple a thing as he anticipated. They had acquired a momentum it was difficult to arrest. Then, wiring in code to Philadelphia for his requirements in cash, he went up to the big house on the hill and shut himself from all intruders.

On the terrace, overlooking river and works, he walked ceaselessly up and down, irritated but not alarmed. Some foreign substance had got into the delicate wheels of progress, and the machine was for the moment out of adjustment. From where he stood the works were visible, and while he missed the long illumination of the rail mill and the pyramidal flame of the converters, there still sparkled the pulp mill with its long, lighted windows and the gleam of water in the tail race. Twenty-four hours ago he was sitting on the deck of the Evangeline with the genial bishop. Now he was very much alone. What would Wimperley and the rest do in such an emergency? He had never seen them in a corner. His reverie was interrupted by a message that Manson desired to see him.

"Riots?" said Clark to himself, then aloud, "Bring him here."

The big man came up, extending a friendly hand. Clark had a curious dislike for physical, personal contact, even of the slightest, but now overcame it with difficulty and motioned his visitor to a chair. The latter sat speechless.

"Well, Mr. Manson?" Clark asked when the silence became too perceptible.

"I came to ask you if there were any prospects of trouble at the works," said the latter presently. He spoke jerkily, and in a note far removed from the deep boom of his usual voice.

"Why should you expect any trouble because pay day is postponed for a week?"

Manson lifted his heavy lids. "Is it only for a week?"

Clark got up and paced the terrace, his head thrust forward, his hands behind his back. There was that in the visitor's manner which puzzled him. The evident agitation and discomfort, the anxious moving of the thick arms, the constant shifting of the feet, all pointed to something that struck deeper than the possibility of a riot. And Manson, he had reason to know, was no coward.

"I anticipate that it will be less than a week. How many men have you?"

"Thirty, and myself."

"We have twenty guards at the works, also, if need be, there's the local militia."

"Have you ever seen them?" said the chief constable contemptuously.

"No, but the law is behind them and a certain amount of discipline," then, his voice changing abruptly, "Mr. Manson, are you afraid?"

The big man stared at him as though fascinated. His dark face began to work convulsively in an obvious attempt to voice that which disturbed him. Clark watched it all.

"Well," he said with ill concealed impatience, "if it's not an imaginary riot that's troubling you, I'll say good evening. I'm rather busy at the moment."

At that Manson half lifted himself out of his chair and leaned forward.
"It's the works," he whispered huskily, "are they all going to hell?"

Clark stared at him in open astonishment. It was an absurd thing that at this moment he should be subjected to a visit from a man who had never believed in him, but who was now evidently torn by anxiety at the thought of his failure. There came a swift and silent suggestion, but the thing was too remote.

"Mr. Manson," he said slowly, "you never took any stock in me or my efforts, so why worry?"

"But that's just what I did do," croaked the constable, reddening to his temples. "I invested all I could and," he added dully, "I've got it now."

"Ah! so that's it?"

"And I'd be grateful if you could tell me—"

"So you said one thing and did another!" The tones were like a knife. "Well, that's your privilege, and none of my affair, and," he concluded curtly, "I don't care to discuss it. Good evening."

But Manson was on his feet, too desperate to be denied. "It's not your affair what I may have said or done? I'm a shareholder—a large one. I've a right to come here and ask you a question. It's nothing unreasonable—and you'll answer it." He stood over the smaller man, dark and threatening.

Clark laughed in his face, till, with that extraordinary perception which so frequently cleft to the essential essence of things, he perceived that there was that which was more important than the fact that Manson had been speculating and would certainly be bitten. His attitude in public was worth something—at any rate in St. Marys. Known universally as a critic and pessimist, it would be notable if now, in the time of crisis, he became a supporter. Manson as a shareholder did not matter, but officially he did matter. Very swiftly Clark ran over this in his mind, while the big man waited, no longer a menace but only a straw borne by the flood which was the creation of Clark's imagination. There was no doubt in the latter's mind as to the ultimate solution of present difficulties. He still believed, as he always believed, in himself, in the country and in his enterprise. So, very deliberately, he began to talk.

"You have asked me a very extraordinary question—that is from you—but it appears," here the voice was a little sardonic, "that you had more confidence in me than you admitted. Now you ask about the future. I tell you that I never had more faith in the final outcome of affairs than I have at this moment. There have been difficulties of which the public knew nothing—and this is the only one which has become common knowledge. Do you expect any one to build up a concern like this without anxious moments? You know what St. Marys was seven years ago, and I remember very distinctly your attitude toward myself. It has taken seven years," here once more the voice was full of contempt—"seven years and a crisis, to convert you. Speculators will doubtless take advantage of this interruption, but I am confident that long after you and I have passed on, steel rails will still be rolled at the works. Good evening."

Manson muttered something unintelligible, and moved off down the long hill that led to St. Marys. For the first time in his life he believed in Clark, believed in him in that hour when the faith of thousands was being shaken. He had no conception what a pigmy unit he himself was in the multitude who followed their remarkable leader. He had no grasp of the fundamentals of which Clark confidently took hold in the time of stress. He did not wonder who else was in like case with himself. He only knew that this man had thrown him the end of a rope, and he grasped at it with all the strength of his soul, and had no intentions of loosening his hold.

Later that evening he went in to see Filmer, whose office lights were on, and here found Dibbott and Worden. The three were talking earnestly, and as the broad figure loomed in the doorway Dibbott gave a dry laugh.

"Our pessimist's reputation is looking up. Have you come to crow?"

Manson shook his head and told them very briefly of his visit. There was no mention of his own speculation. "So after all, the thing is probably all right," he concluded. "At any rate, Clark doesn't seem worried, so why should we?"

Filmer gave vent to a low whistle. "Hypnotized at last!"

"No," said Manson, flushing, and went on to promulgate the reasons for his hopes. The others said nothing, but he could see they were impressed. Presently he went out on a midnight round of inspection, and, as the door closed behind him, Worden nodded thoughtfully.

"For the first time in seven years he seems reasonable in this connection. After all, if we get off the handle it will be a mighty bad example. How about it, Mr. Mayor?"

"Well," said Filmer, caressing his glossy whiskers, "I always believed in Clark and I guess I do now. If he were trying to make money for himself out of this thing we'd know it, but he isn't. Gentlemen, the judge is right—we've got to hold the town together."

On the corner they met Bowers, the Company's solicitor, who was walking slowly home smoking a peaceful cigar.

"What's this?" he said, grinning. "Looks like old times to see you three together."

Filmer had a sudden thought. "Do any of you chaps remember what anniversary this is?"

The others searched their brains and gave it up.

"Seven years ago to-night there was a certain notable meeting in the town hall."

"And now there's one in the corner. We've come down in the world," put in Dibbott.

"Possibly, but possibly not. I was just thinking of all that has happened in seven years. It should prevent us from getting rattled." The mayor turned to Bowers, "Seen Clark to-day?"

"Haven't seen or heard of him for three days," answered the lawyer shortly—then, because he wanted to avoid being pumped, "good night—I'm for my blameless couch."

They looked after him and at each other. "Seen Belding?" asked Dibbott of the judge.

"No, he's down in Chicago. I think he's buying machinery. Now it's late and if I don't go home too, I'll get into trouble." He turned towards the old house by the river, and halted a few steps off. "Good night, you fellows, I feel better."

Thus it came that while a brooding, gray eyed man paced his terrace with his eyes fixed on the far white line of the rapids, whose call was indistinguishable at this distance, there was spreading almost under the shadow of the works a novel spirit of confidence in himself and his vast enterprise. It was not till a sudden question arose, that St. Marys realized the prodigious meaning of their new city and how lavishly all Clark's promises had been redeemed. In the hour of anxiety they leaned on him more than ever before. This new birth—this upholding trust—was conceived at the very moment when Wimperley and the others were gathered in harassed counsel, and through Philadelphia and the surrounding state was broadening a dark cloud of rumor that carried swift fear to thousands of hearts. But it was not fear that came to the keen brain of Henry Marsham.

By eleven that night Clark had heard nothing from his head office. The strain became too great, and he went into a little room off the library where an extension of the private wire had been carried up from the works. There was once a time when he could send and receive in the Morse code, so now he sat down and laid a somewhat uncertain finger on the tilting key.

"Phil — Phil — Phil."

Instantly and to his surprise, came the reply.

"Sma — Sma — Sma."

"Is — Wimp — there?" The thing began to come a little easier.

"Yes."

"Tell — Wimp — I — want — answer — funds — for — payroll."

Clark got this off laboriously, conscious that however clear might be the message, the wire was a poor transmitter as compared to eye and voice.

"Wimp — says — meeting — going — on — now — cannot — act — before — to-morrow — Get that."

"Yes," flashed the plunging reply.

"Wimp — waiting — your — report — defect — in — rails."

Clark's brows wrinkled and he bent over the key.

"Cannot — send — report — till — several — chemical — anal — anal — "

"Yes — analyses — I — get — you — are — complete — is — that — it."

"Yes." Clark breathed a sigh of relief. His brow was wet.

"When — will — that — be — Wimp — asks."

"Three — days."

"Wimp — says — hurry — up — things — shaky — here — expect — attack — by — bears — have tried — to — place — rails — elsewhere — but — not — successful. Wimp — says — good night."

Clark's eyes sparkled with anger and he hammered the key. There were other things he wanted to say—and must say. But for all his repeated calls there was only silence, till in an interval, while he rubbed his throbbing fingers, the receiver began to tilt.

"Wimp — says — good night —" it announced with metallic finality.

He got up and stood staring at the thing for a moment, his face heavy with anger, the group in Wimperley's office vividly before him. He could see the cold features of Birch, sharpened by the tenseness of the hour into a visage bloodless and inflexible, with thin tight lips and narrow expressionless eyes. He could see Stoughton, red with discomfort and resentment; Riggs' excited and anxious little face, and Wimperley himself, cast with a new severity; all supremely conscious of that which probably must be faced on the morrow. And what about Marsham? Tottering was now their faith in the essential future of the works and the great cycle of their operations. The wire had transmitted their decisions, but over its yellow filament had also trickled their apprehension. With a touch of cynicism he recalled the congratulatory messages—the very first it had carried.

He went out on the terrace again, seeking the black bulk of the rail mill in the medley of structures down at the works. Presently he found and scrutinized it. Somewhere in its gloom lurked an error, or else in the great furnaces that shouldered nakedly into the moonlit air. With a sudden sense of fatigue, he turned to his bedroom.

"At any rate the chief constable is with me," he soliloquized sardonically, "and that's something."

In five minutes he was sleeping profoundly.