THE station-master said nonchalantly that he had nothing to do with it,
and from out the telegraph office he brought a stout wooden chair which
he set down in the dark strip of shade which ran along the pine platform
under the eaves of the station. The back of this chair being tilted
against the building, the station-master sat down in it, put his heels
on the wooden round, took from his pocket a jack-knife, and began
to whittle a stick, an occupation which the momentary pausing of the
express seemed to have interrupted. There was nothing of the glass of
fashion or the mould of form about the station-master. He was dressed
in weather-worn trousers, held to his thin frame by a pair of suspenders
quite evidently home-made, which came over his shoulders, and underneath
this was a coarse woollen shirt, open at the throat because the button
had gone. On top of all this there perched a three-year-old, dilapidated
straw hat which had once possessed a wide brim, but was now in a state
of disrepair in thorough keeping with the costume. Yet in spite
of appearances he was a capable young man who could manipulate a
telegraphic machine at reasonable speed, was well up in the business
pertaining to Slocum Junction, and had definite opinions regarding the
manner in which the affairs of the nation should be carried on. Indeed,
at that moment he was an exemplification of the independence for which
his country had fought and bled. No one knew better than he that the
Greased Lightning Express would never have halted for an instant at
Slocum Junction unless it did so to put off a person of some importance.
But that important person had begun to give his opinion of the locality
in language that was painful and free the moment he realised the
situation, and the station-master signified his resentment by sitting
down in the chair and assuming a careless attitude, which told the
stranger plainer than words that he could go to the devil if he wished.
For all he knew, the obstreperous person who had stepped from the
express might be his chief, but the station-master made no concession to
this possibility.
Opposite him in the blazing sunlight stood a dapper young man grasping a
neat handbag. He might have posed as a tailor’s model, and he offered
a striking contrast to the unkempt station-master. He cast an almost
despairing look at the vanishing express, now a mere dot in the horizon,
with a trail of smoke, as if it were a comet that had run aground. Then
he turned an exasperated face upon the nonchalant station-master.
“You are not responsible for the situation, eh? You don’t seem to care
much, either.”
“Well, to tell the truth, stranger, I don’t.”
“You mean to tell me there’s no train for two hours and a half on the
branch line?”
“I never said anything of the sort, because there isn’t any branch
line.”
“No branch line? Why, there it is before my eyes! There’s a locomotive,
of a kind, and a composite passenger and freight-car that evidently
dates from the time of the Deluge. Noah used that car!” cried the angry
stranger.
“Well, if Noah was here, he wouldn’t use it for two hours and a half,”
said the station-master complacently.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” protested the stranger. “Is there,
or is there not, a train in two hours and a half?”
“Of course there is.”
“You said a minute ago there wasn’t.”
“I didn’t say anything of the kind, and if you weren’t adding your own
natural heat to the unnatural heat of the day, you’d learn something.
You were talking about branch lines; I said there is no branch line.
That’s all.”
“Then what’s the meaning of those two lines of rust running to the
right?”
“There’s five or six thousand people,” droned the station-master, “who’d
like to know what that object you’re referring to really is. Leastways,
they used to want to know, but lately they’ve given up all curiosity
on the subject. They’re the shareholders, who put up good money to have
that road made. We call it the Farmers’ Road, and it isn’t a branch, but
as independent as the main line.”
“Or as yourself,” hazarded the young man.
“Well, it’s independent, anyhow,” continued the station-master, “and
I’ve nothing to do with it.”
“Haven’t the cursed fools who own it the sense to make it connect with
anything on the main line?”
“Of course, we’re all fools unless we come from Chicago,” said the
station-master imperturbably.
“I didn’t say that,” commented the stranger.
“No, _I_ did. If your dome of thought was in working order, I shouldn’t
need to explain these things; but as I’ve nothing particular to do,
I may as well teach a man from Chicago his ABC. You stepped off the
express just now owning the whole country, populated with fools,
according to you. I’ve been station-master here for eighteen months, and
I never saw that express stop before. I may be an idiot, but still I
am aware that a man who steps off the Greased Lightning is one of two
things. He is either a bigbug with pull enough on the railway company to
get them to stop the Greased Lightning for him, or else he’s a tramp who
can’t pay his fare, and so is put off.”
“Oh, you’ve sized me up, have you? Well, which am I? The millionaire or
the tramp?”
“When you stepped off, I thought you were the millionaire; but the
moment you opened your mouth, I knew you were the tramp.”
John Steele laughed with very good-natured heartiness.
“Say, old man, that’s all right. The drinks are on me, if there were a
tavern near, which there doesn’t seem to be. I suppose there’s no place
in this God-forsaken hole where on a hot day like this a man can get a
cooling beverage?”
“Stranger, you’re continually jumping at conclusions and landing at
the wrong spot. Allow me to tell you”--here he lowered his voice a
bit--“that you don’t raise no blush to my cheeks by anything you can
say; but there’s a lady in the waiting-room, and if I were you I’d talk
accordingly.”
The change in the cocksure attitude of John Steele was so sudden and
complete that it brought a faint smile of gratification to the gaunt
face of the station-master.
“Great heavens!” whispered the crestfallen young man, “why didn’t you
tell me that before?”
“Well, you’ve been kind of monopolising the conversation, and I haven’t
had much chance to speak up to now. One would suppose that if a man had
a thinking-machine in his head at all, he would know that the little
road couldn’t connect with a train that never stopped here.”
“Of course, of course,” said John hurriedly, his mind running on the
language he had used in the first moments of chagrin at finding himself
marooned at this desolate junction, which might have been heard by
the unseen lady in the waiting-room. He hoped his voice hadn’t carried
through the pine wall.
“Well, station-master, I apologise. And now, if you will kindly tell me
what the Farmers’ Road _does_ connect with, I’ll be very much obliged.”
“The Farmers’ Road runs two trains a day,” said the station-master
sententiously, as if he were speaking of some mighty empire. “The train
consists, as you see, of a locomotive and a mixed car. The first train
comes in here at nine o’clock in the morning, connecting with the local
going east. It then returns to Bunkerville, and reaches here in the
afternoon at three o’clock, to connect with the local going west. That
little train doesn’t know there are any flyers on our line; all it knows
is that the eastern local comes in somewhere about nine o’clock in the
morning, and the western local arrives anywhere between three and five
in the afternoon. So a Chicago man can’t step jauntily off the express
he has managed to stop, and expect to get a train to Bunkerville
whenever he chooses.”
“Admirably stated,” said John Steele. “And if you will condescend
further to enlighten a beclouded intellect would you mind explaining
what the deuce the little train is doing here at this hour? If I follow
your argument, it should have returned to Bunkerville after the nine
o’clock local came in, arriving here again just before three o’clock.”
“Your befogged brain is waking up,” said the station-master
encouragingly. “The phenomenon to which you have called attention
happens once or twice a week. If you cast your eye to the other end of
the platform, you will see piled there an accumulation of miscellaneous
freight. The Farmers’ Road has just dumped that upon us, and to do so
has taken a special trip. That stuff will go east on Number Eight, which
is a freight train that will stop here some time in the afternoon when
it sees the signal set against it.”
“I comprehend,” said Steele; “and I venture on my next proposition with
great diffidence, caused by increasing admiration of yourself and the
lucid mind you bring to bear on Western railway procedure. If I have
followed your line of argument as unerringly as the farmers’ train
follows the Farmers’ Road, his nibs the engineer must take the train
back to Bunkerville so that he may return here on his regular trip to
meet the three o’ clock western local. If I am right, what is to prevent
him from going now, taking me with him, and giving me an opportunity
at Bunkerville to transact my business and catch the regular train
back?--for I am going further west, and would like to intercept the
local, which would save me spending an unnecessary night at Bunkerville,
and wasting most of to-morrow as well.”
“The reasons are as follows: His nibs, as you call him, is engineer,
conductor, brakeman, and freight handler. When he came in, he had to
carry that freight from his car to the platform where you see it. That
takes time, even if the day were not so oppressively hot as it is. So,
instead of keeping up his fire under the boiler, and burning useless
coal, he banks the furnace as soon as he arrives. Then, at his leisure,
he removes the boxes to the platform. If he returned to Bunkerville,
they would give him something to do there; here he is out of reach;
besides, he would have to draw his fires and start anew about two
o’clock, and that he doesn’t want to do. He has, therefore, curled
himself up in the passenger car, put a newspaper over his face to keep
off the flies, and has gone to sleep. When the proper moment arrives he
will stir up his fire, go to Bunkerville, and then be ready to make the
return trip on one expenditure of coal. _Now_ do you understand?”
“Yes, thank you, I do; and this has given me an idea.”
“That’s a good thing, and I can easily guess what your idea is. But
before putting it into operation, I should like to mitigate a slight
you have put on Slocum Junction. You made a sarcastic remark about cool
drinks. Now, I beg to inform you that the nine o’clock local from the
west slides off on this here platform every morning a great big square
cold chunk of ice. That chunk of ice is growing less and less in a big
wooden pail in the telegraph-office, but the water that surrounds it is
chilly as the North Pole. If you have anything in your hip pocket or
in that natty little valise which mitigates the rigour of cold water,
there’s no reason why you shouldn’t indulge in a refreshing drink.”
“Station-master,” said John, laughing, “you ought to be superintendent
of this road, instead of junction boss. You’re the wisest man I’ve met
in two years.”
Saying this, he sprang the catch of the handbag and drew forth a bulky,
wicker-covered, silver-topped flask.
“I propose we adjourn to the telegraph-office,” he added, “and
investigate that wooden pail.”
The station-master led the way with an alacrity that he had not
heretofore exhibited. The result of the conference was cheerful and
comforting.
“Now,” said the station-master, drawing the back of his hand across his
lips, “what you want is a special train to Bunkerville. A man from
the city would get that by telegraphing to the superintendent at the
terminus and paying twenty dollars. A man from the country who had some
sense would go to Joe the engineer and persuade him he ought to wake up
and return to Bunkerville at once.”
“How much would be required to influence Joe?”
“Oh, a couple of dollars would be wealth. A silver dollar in front of
each eye will obscure the whole Western prairie if placed just right.”
“Very well, I’ll go out and place ‘em.”
“You are forgetting your flask,” said the station-master, as Steele
snapped shut his valise.
“No, I’m not. That flask and its contents belong to you, as a reward for
being patient and instructive when a darned fool let loose from the city
happened your way.”
And this showed John Steele to be a reader of his fellow-man; for
while the engineer might accept the two dollars, the independent
station-master certainly would not have done so. That glib official,
however, seemed to have no particular words for this occasion, so he
changed the subject and said: “If you persuade Joe to go, I wish you’d
remember the lady in the waiting-room. She’s a Miss Dorothy Slocum, and
a powerful nice girl, that teaches school in Bunkerville. Fact is, this
junction was named after her father. Used to be the principal man round
these parts; but he lost his money, and now his girl’s got to teach
school. I never knew him--he was dead long before I came here. She’s
been visiting relatives. This is vacation time, you know.”
“All right. You tell her there’s a special leaving in a few minutes, and
that she’s very welcome to ride upon it.”
With that John Steele went out into the furnace of the sun across the
dusty road and entered the composite car. The Farmers’ Road did not join
rails with the main line, and so caused much extra handling of freight.
The engine stood there simmering in the heat, both external and
internal, a slight murkiness of smoke rising from its funnel, shaped
like an inverted bell.
“Hallo, Joe!” cried Steele, as he entered the car. “Don’t you yearn for
home and friends?”
The man was sprawling on two seats, with a newspaper over his head, as
the station-master had predicted.
“Hello!” he echoed, sitting up and shaking away the sheet of paper,
“what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, except that if the spirit should move you to get over
to Bunkerville with this ancient combination, five dollars will be
transferred from my pocket into yours.”
“‘Nough said,” cried Joe, rising to his feet. “It’ll take me about
twenty minutes to get the pot boiling again. You don’t happen to have
the fiver about you, I suppose? I haven’t seen one for a couple of
years.”
“Here you are,” replied Steele, drawing a crisp bill from his purse.
The engineer thrust it into the pocket of his greasy overalls.
“I’ll toot the whistle when I’m ready,” he said.
This financial operation accomplished, John Steele returned to the
station. The station-master was standing by the door of the waiting-room
conversing pleasantly with someone within. When Steele entered the room
he was amazed to see so pretty a girl sitting on the bench that ran
round the bare walls of the uninviting apartment.
“Will you introduce me?” inquired the city man, handing his card to the
station-master.
“Miss Dorothy Slocum,” said the latter, “this is Mr. John Steele, of
Chicago.”
The young man removed his fashionable straw hat.
“Miss Slocum,” he said, “I desire to apologise to you. I’m afraid that
when I found myself stranded on the platform outside, I used language
which can hardly be justified, even in the circumstances. But I had no
idea at the time that there was a lady within miles of us.”
“I was much interested in my book,” replied the girl, with a smile, “and
was not paying attention to what was going on outside.”
She held up the volume, between whose leaves her fore-finger was placed.
“Well, Miss Slocum, it must have been a pretty absorbing story, and I am
deeply grateful to it for acting as a non-conductor between my impulsive
observations and your hearing. Nothing excuses intemperate language,
as the station-master here has taught me through the force of a benign
example. Still, if anything could exculpate a man, I should think it
would be the exasperating conduct of this Farmers’ Railroad, as they
call it.”
“Indeed,” said Miss Dorothy archly, “the book had really no right to
interfere, because I am one of the owners of the railway, and so perhaps
it was my duty to listen to complaints of a passenger. Not that I have
anything to do with the management of the line; I am compelled to pay my
fare just like the rest.”
“I shall be delighted if you accept a ride on your own road as free as
if you carried a superintendent’s pass. I am going to Bunkerville in my
own private car, as it were, and shall feel honoured if I may extend the
courtesies of the same.”
“The station-master has just told me you were kind enough to offer a
poor vagrant a lift to Bunkerville. I wished to buy a ticket, but this
haughty official of the main line so despises our poor little road that
he will not sell me one.”
“Indeed,” said the station-master, “I haven’t the power, nor the
tickets. They don’t entrust me with any business so tremendous. Joe
starts his rickety engine going, then leaves it to jog along as it
likes, and comes through the car to collect the fares. They have no
tickets, and perhaps that’s why the road has never paid a dividend.”
“Oh, you mustn’t say that!” protested the girl. “Poor Joe has not got
rich out of his occupation, any more than the shareholders have made
money on their shares. If you will permit me to pay my fare to Joe,
Mr. Steele I shall be only too happy to take this early opportunity of
getting to Bunkerville.”
“I couldn’t think of it, Miss Slocum; in fact, I must prohibit any
communication between Joe and yourself, fearing you, as an owner of
the road, may learn by what corrupt practices I induced Joe to make the
trip.”
The girl laughed, but before she could reply, a wheezy
“Toot-toot!” outside announced that Joe had already got steam up.
“I’ll carry your valise across,” said the obliging station-master, while
Miss Dorothy Slocum picked up her lighter belongings and accompanied Mr.
John Steele to the shabby little passenger-car. Joe was leaning out
of the cab with a grin on his smeared face, which was there probably
because of the five-dollar bill in his trousers’ pocket. The
station-master placed the valise in the baggage section of the car, and
raised his tattered hat as the little train started gingerly out for the
open country.
It was a pretty landscape through which they passed, with little to
indicate that the prairies were so near at hand. The line ran along a
shallow valley, well wooded, especially by the banks of the stream that
wandered through it, which even at this parched season of the year
was still running its clear-water course, and Miss Slocum informed the
Chicago man that it flowed from a never-drying spring some ten miles
on the other side of the main line. The little road was as crooked as
possible, for the evident object of its constructors had been to avoid
bridging the stream, piling up any high embankments or excavating deep
cuttings. The pace, therefore, was exceedingly slow; nevertheless John
Steele did not find the time hang heavily on his hands. At first the
girl seemed somewhat shy and embarrassed to find herself the only
passenger except this gallant young business man; but he tactfully
put her at her ease by pretending much interest in the history of the
railway, with which he soon learned she was unfortunately familiar.
“Yes,” she said; “the building of this road was the greatest financial
disaster that ever occurred in this section of the country. My father
was one of its chief promoters. When the Wheat Belt Line, by which you
came here from Chicago, was surveyed through this part of the State,
those interested in the neighbourhood expected it to run through
Bunkerville, which would thus become a large town. The railway people
demanded a large money bonus, which Bunker County refused, because
Bunkerville was in the direct line, and they thought the railway must
come through there, whether a bonus were paid or not. In fact, the first
survey passed just north of Bunkerville. But our poor little village was
not so important as its inhabitants imagined, and the next line surveyed
was twenty miles away. For once the farmers were too shrewd. They
thought, as they put it, that the new line was a bluff, and did not
realise their mistake until too late. My father had been in favour
of granting the bonus, but he was out-voted. Perhaps that is why the
railway people called their station Slocum instead of Bunkerville, which
was twenty miles distant. The next nearest railway line was forty-five
miles away, and two years after the Wheat Belt Line began operations,
it was proposed to organise a local company to construct a railway from
Slocum, through Bunkerville to Jamestown, on the other line. Bonuses
were granted all along the route, and besides this the State legislature
gave a subsidy, and, furthermore, passed a bill to prevent competition,
prohibiting any railway to parallel the Farmers’ Road for sixty miles on
either side.”
“Does that law still stand on the statute books of the State?” asked
Steele, with increasing interest.
“I think so. It has never been repealed to my knowledge.”
“Well, I should doubt its being constitutional. Why, that ties up more
than seven thousand square miles of the State into a hard knot,
and prevents it from acquiring the privilege of further railway
communication.”
“In a measure it does,” said the girl. “You may run as many lines as you
like north and south, but not east and west.”
“It’s a wonder the Wheat Belt Line didn’t contest that law,” said
Steele.
“Well, I’ve been told that this law is entirely in the interests of the
Wheat Belt Line, although the farmers didn’t think so when they voted
for the Bill. You see, the Wheat Belt Line was already in operation east
and west, and could not be affected by that Act, and, of course, the
same Bill which prevented competition to the Farmers’ Road also, in a
measure, protected the Wheat Belt Line through the same district.”
“By Jove!” said Steele, his eyes glistening, “this is a proposition
which contains some peculiar points. Well, go on, what happened?”
“Oh, disaster happened. In spite of the legislation and bonuses, the
road was a complete failure, and ruined all who were deeply interested
in it. The farmers subscribed stock to the amount of something like
a hundred thousand dollars, but this money, with the sum of the
legislative grant and the bonuses, was all swallowed up in the first
twenty miles, and in getting the rolling-stock and equipment, such as
it is. The line was never pushed through to Jamestown, and there arose
litigation about some of the bonuses that had been paid, and, all in
all, it was a most disastrous business. It was hoped that the Wheat
Belt Line would come to the rescue and buy the unfinished road, but they
would not look at it. This section has never paid a dividend, and is
supposed to be doing well when it earns enough money for expenses and
repairs. The shares can now be bought for five cents on the dollar, or
less.”
“How much of it do you possess, Miss Slocum?”
“I own a thousand shares, and my father told me not to part with them,
because he was certain that some day they would be valuable.”
For a few moments there was silence in the car, and the girl, glancing
up at her companion, found his ardent gaze fixed upon her with an
intensity that was embarrassing. She flushed slightly and turned
her head to look out of the window at the familiar scenery they were
passing. It would have surprised the young man could he have read the
thoughts that occupied the mind of this extremely pretty and charmingly
modest girl who sat opposite him. Here is practically what she said to
herself: “I am tired of this deadly dull village in which I live,
and here, at last, is a way out. I read in his eyes the beginning of
admiration. He shall be the youthful Moses to lead me into the Promised
Land. Through this lucky meeting I shall attain the city if I but play
my cards rightly.”
It would have astonished the girl if she had known what was in the man’s
mind. The ardent gaze was not for her, as she had supposed. Although
he appeared to be looking directly at her, he was in reality almost
ignorant of her presence, and saw unfolded before him a scene far beyond
her--the whole range of the Eastern States. The power that enabled him
to stop the fast express at Slocum Junction gave a hint of Steele’s
position in the railway world to the station-master, but it conveyed
no meaning to the girl. It was his business to be intimately acquainted
with the railway situation in northwestern America, and that involved
the knowledge of what was going on in the Eastern States. He knew that
the Rockervelt system was making for somewhere near this point, and
that, ultimately, it would need to cross the State, in spite of the
opposition it must meet from the Wheat Belt Line. Whoever possessed the
Farmers’ bankrupt road held the right of way across the State, so far
as a belt of one hundred and twenty miles was concerned. It seemed
incredible that Rockervelt, this Napoleon of the railway world, should
be ignorant of the obstacle that lay in his path. Rockervelt was in the
habit of buying legislatures and crushing opposition; still, he never
spent money where it was not required, and it would be infinitely
cheaper to buy the Farmers’ Road, and thus secure the privileges
pertaining to it, than to purchase the repeal of the obstructing law.
At that moment John Steele determined to camp across the path of the
conqueror. If Napoleon accepted battle, John was under no delusion as to
the result. The name of Steele would disappear from the roll of rising
young men in Chicago, and he might be forced to begin at the bottom of
the ladder again. However, he knew that Napoleon’s eye was fixed on the
Pacific coast, and that he never wasted time in a fight if a reasonable
expenditure of money would cause the enemy to withdraw. Steele
calculated that he could control the road for something under three
thousand dollars, which would give him the majority of the stock at
the price the girl had named. That was a mere bagatelle. Then he would
withdraw from Rockervelt’s front for anything between three hundred
thousand dollars and half a million. If he succeeded, he would at
least recover all the money he had lost in the panic which followed the
trickery of Rock-ervelt, Blair and Beck. But success meant more than
this. Aside from the joy of relieving Rockervelt of a substantial sum,
there would also follow the practical defeat of T. Acton Blair, for the
Farmers’ Road was situated in that Western district on which the general
manager was supposed to keep his eye, in the interests of the Rockervelt
system.
A sigh from the girl brought him to a realisation of his neglect of
social duties, and the brilliant vision of loot faded from his eyes.
“What pretty scenery we are passing!” he said. “The wooded dell, and the
sparkling little rivulet running through it. It is sweet and soothing
after the rush and turmoil of a great city. It must be a delight to live
here.”
“Indeed it isn’t!” cried the girl; “it is horrid! Deadly dull, utterly
commonplace, with little chance of improving the mind, and none at all
for advancing one’s material condition. I loathe the life and yearn for
the city.”
As she said this she bestowed upon him a fascinating glimpse of a pair
of lovely eyes, and veiled within them he saw what he took to be a
tender appeal for sympathy and, perhaps, for help. After all, he was a
young man, and perhaps that glance had carried a hypnotic suggestion
to his very soul; and, added to all this, the girl was undoubtedly
beautiful.
“Really,” he said, leaning forward towards her, “I think that might be
managed, you know.”
“Do you?” she asked, looking him full in the face.
At this interesting moment the car slowly came to a standstill at a
wooden platform, and Joe thrust open the door and shouted: “Here you
are! Bunkerville!”
Dorothy Slocum held out her hand shyly to John Steele as she bade him
“Good-bye.” She thanked him once more for allowing her to ride on the
special train, and added: “If you ever come to Bunkerville again, I hope
you will not forget me.”
“Forget you!” cried the enthusiastic young man. “I think you entirely
underrate the attractions of Bunkerville. It seems to me a lovely
village. But I shall visit it in the near future--not because of itself,
but for the reason that a certain Miss Dorothy lives here.”
To this complimentary speech Miss Slocum made no reply, but she laughed
and blushed in a manner very becoming to her, and somehow managed to
leave an impression on Mr. Steele’s mind that she was far from being
displeased at the words he had uttered.
When she was gone, the traveller asked Joe where the office of Mr.
Hazlett, the lawyer, was situated, and being directed, he was speedily
in the presence of the chief legal functionary that Bunkerville
possessed. Steele had a considerable amount of money lent upon
Bunkerville business property, and his lawyer had written him that,
as times were backward, there arose some difficulty in persuading the
debtors to meet the requirements of the mortgages. If the mortgages were
foreclosed and the property sold, Hazlett did not think it would produce
the money that had been borrowed upon it, and so Steele had informed him
that he would drop off at Bunkerville on his way west and consult with
him.
The lawyer had been looking for him on the regular train, and so was not
at the station to meet him. If Hazlett had expected a visit from a hard
old skinflint, bent on clutching his pound of financial flesh, he must
have been somewhat surprised to greet a smiling young fellow who seemed
to be thinking of anything but the property in question.
“We will just walk down the street,” said the lawyer, “and I’ll show you
the buildings.”
“All right,” assented Steele, “if it doesn’t take too long; for I must
catch the three o’clock local at Slocum Junction.”
During their walk together Steele paid but the scantiest interest to the
edifices pointed out to him, and the lawyer soon found he was not even
listening to the particulars he recited so circumstantially.
“Do you know anything about the Farmers’ Railway?” was the question
Steele shot at him in the midst of a score of reasons why it was better
not to foreclose at the present moment.
“I know all about it,” said the lawyer. “I have done the legal business
of the road from its beginning.”
“Is there a list of the shareholders in existence?”
“I hold a partial list; but shares have changed hands a good deal, and
sometimes no notification has been given me, which is contrary to law.”
“I was told to-day that shares can be bought at five cents on the
dollar. Is that true?”
“Many shares have been sold at that price; some for less, some for
more.”
“What is the total number of shares?’
“A hundred thousand.”
“Could fifty thousand and an odd share be bought?”
“Do you mean to get control of the road? Yes, I suppose it might be done
if you weren’t in a hurry, and it was gone about quietly. Some farmers
in the outlying districts refuse to sell, thinking the price of the
stock will rise, which of course it won’t do. Nevertheless, I imagine
there should be no difficulty in collecting fifty thousand shares and
one more.”
“What would it cost?”
“Anywhere between three and five thousand dollars--all depending, as
I said, on the thing being done circumspectly, for in these rural
communities the wildest rumours get afloat, and so, if it became known
that some one was in the market, prices would go up.”
“Well, I have in my mind exactly the man to do the trick with
discretion, and his name is Hazlett. I will lodge in the bank here five
thousand dollars in your name, and I depend on you to get me at least
one share over the fifty thousand, although, to be on the safe side,
you may purchase at least a thousand in excess. Send the shares to me in
Chicago as fast as you secure them, and I’ll take care of them.”
“Very well, Mr. Steele, I shall do the best I can.”
“We will return to your office now, Hazlett, and I’ll hand you the
cheque. In these matters it’s just as well not to lose any time.”
“There’s another building I want to show you, about five hundred yards
down the street.”
“We won’t mind it to-day. I have determined to take your advice and not
foreclose at the present moment. Let’s get back to your office, for I
mustn’t miss Joe’s train.”
After Steele had returned to Chicago, shares in the Farmers’ Railroad
began to drop in on him in bulky packages, which he duly noted and
placed in a safe. Presently the packages became smaller and smaller,
but as the total had already reached forty-nine thousand six hundred and
thirty, Steele was not alarmed until he received the following letter
from Hazlett:
Dear Mr. Steele:
About two weeks ago I became suspicious that somebody else was buying
shares of the Farmers. Road. I came across at that time several people
who had sold, although they did not know to whom; and a few days ago a
young man called upon me to know if I had any shares for sale. I told
him I had none, and as I showed very little interest in the matter,
I got some information, and find that a man named T. Acton Blair, of
Warmington, is the buyer, and apparently he has agents all over the
country trying to purchase shares. I would have telegraphed this
information to you were it not for the fact that our telegraph-office
is a little leaky, and also because I thought I had the game in my own
hands. A young woman in this town, a teacher, Dorothy Slocum by name,
possesses a thousand shares, which I felt certain I could purchase for
a reasonable figure. I began at ten cents, but she refused, and finally
raised to fifty cents, and then a dollar. Higher than that I could not
take the responsibility of going without direct authority from you. To
my amazement, she has informed me to-day that she has been offered ten
thousand dollars for her stock. I obtained her promise that she will not
sell for a week. She telegraphed her decision to Blair, and has received
an answer from him saying he is on his way to see her. I learn from Miss
Slocum that she is acquainted with you, and I surmise, without being
certain, that you personally will prove the successful negotiator if you
are on the spot. This letter should reach you in time to enable you to
arrive here at least as soon as Blair, and I advise prompt action on
your part if we are to secure that thousand shares. If you cannot come,
telegraph me any one of the following words, and I shall understand I am
authorised to offer the amount set down opposite that word.
Yours most sincerely,
James P. Hazlett.
There followed this a dozen words, signifying amounts from ten thousand
dollars upwards.
Lawyer Hazlett received a telegram:
_Will reach Slocum Junction at twelve to-morrow. Arrange special train
on the Farmers’ Road to Bunkerville to be at Junction._
_Steele._
The moment Blair’s name caught John Steele’s eye in the lawyer’s letter,
he knew that Rockervelt was at last alert and of course could outbid him
a thousand to one.
When the Greased Lightning Express stopped at Slocum Junction on this
occasion, John Steele had ample time to reach the platform, because the
express detached itself from a sumptuous private car before it pursued
its journey further west.
“Aha!” said John to himself, “friend Blair travels in style.”
The station-master greeted Steele with the cordiality of an old friend.
“Here is a letter which lawyer Hazlett sent out to be handed to you as
soon as you arrived, and wished you to read it at once.”
Steele tore open the envelope and read:
_I am sorry about the special train, but Blair had telegraphed from
Warmington ordering it before your wire came. I have arranged, however,
that Joe will return at once for you, as soon as he has landed Blair
in Bunkerville. This will make no difference in the negotiations; Miss
Slocum has promised to be away from home when Blair calls, and will see
you first. I think you’ve got the inside track, although I surmise the
young woman is well aware that she holds the key to the situation. I
don’t know if she’s after all the money she can get, or whether there
is something of friendliness in her action. I rather suspect the latter,
and I think you can conclude negotiations before she sees Blair at all._
_Yours most sincerely,_
_James P. Hazlett._
John Steele gave no expression to the annoyance he felt at missing the
special. He distrusted the lawyer’s optimism, and like a flash resolved
to be in Bunkerville as soon as his antagonist. Blair had stepped down
from his private car, asked the station-master where the special was to
be found, and quickly ordered his car to be placed on a side track. When
he had entered the Bunkerville composition car, and Joe had started up
his wheezy engine, Steele darted from the shadow of the station, caught
the car and sat down on the rear steps outside, well concealed from the
sight of anyone unless that person stood by the end window. All went
well until they were about five miles from Bunkerville, when Steele
thought he recognised a lady’s figure on the highway ahead, and
forgetting that he might expose himself to the sharp eyes of Blair,
he rose to his feet, clutched the stanchions, and leaned forward.
An instant later the rear door was thrown open, a foot was planted
energetically in the small of Steele’s back, and that young man went
hurtling down the embankment, head over heels. There were no half
measures with Blair in a crisis like this.
Steele sat up bruised and dazed, not knowing whether he was hurt
seriously, or had escaped practically unscathed, which latter proved to
be the case. It seemed to him, as he fell through the air, he heard a
woman’s scream. When he was somewhat stupidly debating whether this was
real or imaginary, his doubts were solved by a voice he recognised.
“Oh, Mr. Steele, are you hurt? What a brutal thing for that stout
villain to have done!”
“Why, Miss Dorothy, you of all persons! And here was I trying to sneak
into Bunkerville to see you first. I thought you were teaching school?”
“Not on Saturdays, Mr. Steele,” said the girl, laughing. “I see, after
all, you are not injured.”
“I’m all right, I think. Fortunately Joe doesn’t run sixty miles an
hour. Dorothy, I want you to marry me and come to Chicago.”
Again the girl laughed.
“Dear me,” she said. “I thought you were here to buy my stock. I
couldn’t think of taking advantage of a proposal that had been literally
shaken out of a man. I’m afraid your mind is wandering a bit.”
“My mind was never clearer in its life. What is your answer, Dorothy?”
She sat down beside him, still laughing a little. The rivulet was at
their feet, the railway embankment behind them, the highway, shrouded by
trees, in front.
“Suppose we talk business first, and indulge in sentiment after,” said
the girl, with a roguish twinkle in her eye. “I have been offered ten
thousand dollars for my shares. Are you prepared to pay as much?”
“Yes.”
“Cash down?”
“Yes.”
“I imagine Mr. Blair would never have come all the way from Warmington
to see me if he were not ready to pay a larger sum. I have therefore two
further provisos to make. Proviso number one is that you will give me
ten per cent, on the profits you make in this transaction. Of course,
in spite of Mr. Hazlett’s caution, I know there is something very large
going on, and naturally I wish to profit by it.”
“You are quite right, Miss Slocum, and I agree to the ten per cent,
suggestion; in fact, I offered you a hundred per cent, in the beginning,
and myself into the bargain, which proposal you have ignored. What is
the second proviso?”
“I am told you have a great deal of influence in railway circles in
Chicago.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Can you get a good place for a capable and deserving young man?”
“I think so. Does he understand railroading?”
“Yes, he is the station-master at Slocum Junction.”
“Oh, the station-master! Certainly, I should be delighted to offer him a
good position. He is a splendid fellow, and I like him exceedingly.”
“I am charmed to hear you say so,” said Dorothy, with downcast eyes,
pulling a flower and picking it to pieces; “for that brings us to the
sentiment, and I show my confidence in you and the great esteem in which
I hold you, by telling you this strict secret--that I am engaged to be
married to the station-master, and am anxious to get to Chicago.”