Fortunately for the situation which had so suddenly confronted him,
Bryce Cardigan had Mr. Buck Ogilvy; and out of the experiences gained
in other railroad-building enterprises, the said Ogilvy, while startled,
was not stunned by the suddenness and immensity of the order so casually
given him by his youthful employer, for he had already devoted to the
matter of that crossing the better part of the preceding night. Also
he had investigated, indexed, and cross-indexed the city council with a
view to ascertaining how great or how little would be the effort he must
devote to obtaining from it the coveted franchise.
“Got to run a sandy on the Mayor,” Buck soliloquized as he walked
rapidly uptown. “And I'll have to be mighty slick about it, too, or I'll
get my fingers in the jam. If I get the Mayor on my side--if I get him
to the point where he thinks well of me and would like to oblige me
without prejudicing himself financially or politically--I can get that
temporary franchise. Now, how shall I proceed to sneak up on that oily
old cuss's blind side?”
Two blocks farther on, Mr. Ogilvy paused and snapped his fingers
vigorously. “Eureka!” he murmured. “I've got Poundstone by the tail on a
downhill haul. Is it a cinch? Well, I just guess I should tell a man!”
He hurried to the telephone building and put in a long-distance call for
the San Francisco office of the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company. When
the manager came on the line, Ogilvy dictated to him a message which he
instructed the manager to telegraph back to him at the Hotel Sequoia one
hour later; this mysterious detail attended to, he continued on to the
Mayor's office in the city hall.
Mayor Poundstone's bushy eyebrows arched with interest when his
secretary laid upon his desk the card of Mr. Buchanan Ogilvy,
vice-president and general manager of the Northern California Oregon
Railroad. “Ah-h-h!” he breathed with an unpleasant resemblance to a bon
vivant who sees before him his favourite vintage. “I have been expecting
Mr. Ogilvy to call for quite a while. At last we shall see what we shall
see. Show him in.”
The visitor was accordingly admitted to the great man's presence and
favoured with an official handshake of great heartiness. “I've been
hoping to have this pleasure for quite some time, Mr. Poundstone,” Buck
announced easily as he disposed of his hat and overcoat on an adjacent
chair. “But unfortunately I have had so much preliminary detail to
attend to before making an official call that at last I grew discouraged
and concluded I'd just drop in informally and get acquainted.” Buck's
alert blue eyes opened wide in sympathy with his genial mouth, to
deluge Mayor Poundstone with a smile that was friendly, guileless,
confidential, and singularly delightful. Mr. Ogilvy was a man possessed
of tremendous personal magnetism when he chose to exert it, and that
smile was ever the opening gun of his magnetic bombardment, for it was a
smile that always had the effect of making the observer desire to behold
it again--of disarming suspicion and establishing confidence.
“Glad you did--mighty glad,” the Mayor cried heartily. “We have all, of
course, heard of your great plans and are naturally anxious to hear
more of them, in the hope that we can do all that anybody reasonably and
legally can to promote your enterprise and incidentally our own, since
we are not insensible to the advantages which will accrue to this county
when it is connected by rail with the outside world.”
“That extremely broad view is most encouraging,” Buck chirped, and he
showered the Mayor with another smile. “Reciprocity is the watchword of
progress. I might state, however, that while you Humboldters are fully
alive to the benefits to be derived from a feeder to a transcontinental
road, my associates and myself are not insensible of the fact that the
success of our enterprise depends to a great extent upon the enthusiasm
with which the city of Sequoia shall cooperate with us; and since you
are the chief executive of the city, naturally I have come to you to
explain our plans fully.”
“I have read your articles of incorporation, Mr. Ogilvy,” Mayor
Poundstone boomed paternally. “You will recall that they were published
in the Sequoia SENTINEL. It strikes me---”
“Then you know exactly what we purpose doing, and any further
explanation would be superfluous,” Buck interrupted amiably, glad to
dispose of the matter so promptly. Again he favoured the Mayor with his
bright smile, and the latter, now fully convinced that here was a young
man of vast emprise whom it behooved him to receive in a whole-hearted
and public-spirited manner, nodded vigorous approval.
“Well, that being the case, Mr. Ogilvy,” he continued, “what can we
Sequoians do to make you happy?”
“Why, to begin with, Mr. Poundstone, you might accept my solemn
assurances that despite the skepticism which, for some unknown reason,
appears to shroud our enterprise in the minds of some people, we have
incorporated a railroad company for the purpose of building a railroad.
We purpose commencing grading operations in the very near future, and
the only thing that can possibly interfere with the project will be the
declination of the city council to grant us a franchise to run our line
through the city to tidewater.”
He handed his cigar-case to Mayor Poundstone and continued lightly: “And
I am glad to have your assurance that the city council will not drop a
cold chisel in the cogs of the wheels of progress.”
Mr. Poundstone had given no such assurance, but for some reason he did
not feel equal to the task of contradicting this pleasant fellow. Ogilvy
continued: “At the proper time we shall apply for the franchise. It will
then be time enough to discuss it. In the meantime the N. C. O. plans a
public dedicatory ceremony at the first breaking of ground, and I would
be greatly honoured, Mr. Mayor, if you would consent to turn the
first shovelful of earth and deliver the address of welcome upon that
occasion.”
The Mayor swelled like a Thanksgiving turkey. “The honour will be mine,”
he corrected his visitor.
“Thank you so much, sir. Well, that's another worry off my mind.” With
the tact of a prime minister Buck then proceeded deliberately to shift
the conversation to the weather and asked a number of questions anent
the annual rainfall. Then he turned to crops, finance, and national
politics and gradually veered around to an artistic word-picture of
the vast expansion of the redwood-lumber industry when the redwood-belt
should be connected by rail with the markets of the entire country. He
spoke of the magic effect the building of such a line would have upon
the growth of Sequoia. Sequoia, he felt convinced, was destined to
become a city of at least a hundred thousand inhabitants; he rhapsodized
over the progressive spirit of the community and with a wave of his
hand studded the waters of Humboldt Bay with the masts of the world's
shipping. Suddenly he checked himself, glanced at his watch, apologized
for consuming so much of His Honour's valuable time, expressed himself
felicitated at knowing the Mayor, gracefully expressed his appreciation
for the encouragement given his enterprise, and departed. When he had
gone, Mayor Poundstone declared to his secretary that without doubt
Ogilvy was the livest, keenest fellow that had struck Sequoia since the
advent of old John Cardigan.
Half an hour later the Mayor's telephone-bell rang. Buck Ogilvy was on
the line. “I beg your pardon for bothering you with my affairs twice in
the same day, Mr. Mayor,” he announced deprecatingly, “but the fact is,
a condition has just arisen which necessitates the immediate employment
of an attorney. The job is not a very important one and almost any
lawyer would do, but in view of the fact that we must, sooner or later,
employ an attorney to look after our interests locally, it occurred to
me that I might as well make the selection of a permanent attorney now.
I am a stranger in this city Mr. Poundstone. Would it be imposing on
your consideration if I asked you to recommend such a person?”
“Why, not at all, not at all! Delighted to help you, Mr. Ogilvy. Let me
see, now. There are several attorneys in Sequoia, all men of excellent
ability and unimpeachable integrity, whom I can recommend with the
utmost pleasure. Cadman look up the relatives of a public official!
Well! Forward, men, follow me--to Henry's office.”
Henry Poundstone, Junior, proved to be the sole inhabitant of one rather
bare office in the Cardigan Block. Buck had fully resolved to give him
a retainer of a thousand dollars, or even more, if he asked for it,
but after one look at Henry he cut the appropriation to two hundred and
fifty dollars. Young Mr. Poundstone was blonde and frail, with large
round spectacles, rabbit teeth, and the swiftly receding chin of the
terrapin. Moreover, he was in such a flutter of anticipation over the
arrival of his client that Buck deduced two things--to wit, that the
Mayor had telephoned Henry he was apt to have a client, and that as a
result of this miracle, Henry was in no fit state to discuss the sordid
subject of fees and retainers. Ergo, Mr. Ogilvy decided to obviate such
discussion now or in the future. He handed Henry a check for two hundred
and fifty dollars, which he wrote out on the spot, and with his bright
winning smile remarked: “Now, Mr. Poundstone, we will proceed to
business. That retainer isn't a large one, I admit, but neither is the
job I have for you to-day. Later, if need of your services on a
larger scale should develop, we shall of course expect to make a new
arrangement whereby you will receive the customary retainer of all of
our corporation attorneys I trust that is quite satisfactory.”
“Eminently so,” gasped the young disciple of Blackstone.
“Very well, then; let us proceed to business.” Buck removed from a
small leather bag a bale of legal-looking documents. “I have here,” he
announced, “agreements from landowners along the proposed right of way
of the N. C. O. to give to that company, on demand, within one year
from date, satisfactory deeds covering rights of way which are minutely
described in the said agreements. I wish these deeds prepared for
signing and recording at the earliest possible moment.”
“You shall have them at this time to-morrow,” Henry promised.
The head of Henry Poundstone, Junior, was held high for the first time
since he had flung forth his modest shingle to the breezes of Sequoia
six months before, and there was an unaccustomed gleam of importance in
his pale eyes as he rushed into big father's office in the city hall.
“By jinks, Dad!” he exulted. “I've hooked a fish at last--and he's a
whopper.”
“Omit the cheers, my boy. Remember I sent that fish to you,” his father
answered with a bland and indulgent smile. “What are you doing for
Ogilvy, and how large a retainer did he give you?”
“I'm making out deeds to his rights of way. Ordinarily it's about a
fifty-dollar job, but without waiting to discuss finances he handed me
out two hundred and fifty dollars. Why, Dad, that's more than you make
in a month from your job as Mayor.”
“Well, that isn't a bad retainer. It's an opening wedge. However, it
would be mere chicken-feed in San Francisco.”
“Read this,” Henry urged, and thrust a yellow telegraph-form under the
Mayor's nose. The latter adjusted his glasses and read:
Imperative building operations commence immediately. Local skepticism
injurious and delays dangerous. We must show good faith to our New York
friends. J. P. M. insists upon knowing promptly where we stand with
Sequoia city council. See them immediately and secure temporary
franchise, if possible, to enable us to cross Water Street at B Street
and build out Front Street. Your arrangement with Cardigan for use of
his mill-dock and spur for unloading material from steamer ratified by
board but regarded as hold-up. If your judgment indicates no hold-up
on permanent franchise, commence active operations immediately upon
acquisition of permanent franchise. Engage local labour as far as
possible. Cannot impress upon you too fully necessity for getting busy,
as road must be completed in three years if our plans are to bear fruit
and time is all too short. Impress this upon city council and wire
answer to-morrow.
HOCKLEY.
This telegram, as the Mayor observed, was dated that day and addressed
to Mr. Buchanan Ogilvy, Hotel Sequoia, Sequoia, Calif. Also, with a keen
eye to minor details, lie noted that it had been filed at San Francisco
SUBSEQUENT to Ogilvy's visit to him that afternoon.
“Ah-h-h!” breathed His Honour. “That accounts for his failure to bring
the matter up at our interview. Upon his return to the hotel he
found this telegram and got busy at once. By Jupiter, this looks like
business. Henry, how did you come into possession of this telegram?”
“It must have been mixed up in the documents Ogilvy left with me.
I found it on my desk when I was sorting out the papers, and in my
capacity of attorney for the N.C.O. I had no hesitancy in reading it.”
“Well, I do declare! Wonder who Hockley is. Never heard of that fellow
in connection with the N.C.O.”
“Hockley doesn't matter,” young Henry declared triumphantly, “although
I'd bet a hat he's one of those heavy-weight Wall Street fellows and
one of J.P.M's vice-presidents, probably. J.P.M., of course, is the man
behind.”
“Who the devil is J.P.M.?”
Henry smiled tolerantly upon his ignorant and guileless parent. “Well,
how would J. Pierpont Morgan do for a guess?” he queried.
“Hell's bells and panther-tracks!” Mayor Poundstone started as if
snake-bitten. “I should say you have hooked a big fish. Boy, you've
landed a whale!” And the Mayor whistled softly in his amazement
and delight. “By golly, to think of you getting in with that bunch!
Tremendyous! Per-fect-ly tree-mend-yous! Did Ogilvy say anything about
future business?”
“He did. Said if I proved satisfactory, he would probably take me on and
pay the customary retainer given all of their corporation attorneys.”
“Well, by golly, he'd better take you on! I had a notion that chap
Ogilvy was smart enough to know which side his bread is buttered on and
who does the buttering.”
“If I could guarantee Mr. Ogilvy that temporary franchise mentioned
in his telegram, it might help me to get in right with J.P.M, at the
start,” his hopeful suggested. “I guess it would be kind of poor to
be taken on as one of the regular staff of attorneys for a Morgan
corporation, eh? Say, they pay those chaps as high as fifty thousand
dollars a year retainer!”
“Guarantee it!” his father shouted. “Guarantee it! Well, I should
snicker! We'll just show J. P. M. and his crowd that they made no
mistake when they picked you as their Sequoia legal representative. I'll
call a special meeting of that little old city council of mine and jam
that temporary franchise through while you'd be saying 'Jack Robinson!'”
“I'll tell you what let's do,” Henry suggested. “I'll draw up the
temporary franchise to-night, and we'll put it through to-morrow at,
say, ten o'clock without saying a word to Mr. Ogilvy about it. Then when
the city clerk has signed and attested it and put the seal of the city
on it, I'll just casually take it over to Mr. Ogilvy. Of course he'll be
surprised and ask me how I came to get it, and--”
“And you LOOK surprised,” his father cautioned, “--sort of as if you
failed to comprehend what he's driving at. Make him repeat. Then you
say: 'Oh, that! Why, that's nothing, Mr. Ogilvy. I found the telegram
in those papers you left with me, read it, and concluded you'd left it
there to give me the dope so I could go ahead and get the franchise for
you. Up here, whenever anybody wants a franchise from the city, they
always hire an attorney to get it for them, so I didn't think anything
about this but just naturally went and got it for you. If it ain't
right, why, say so and I'll have it made right.'” Old Poundstone nudged
his son in the short ribs and winked drolly. “Let him get the idea
you're a fly bird and on to your job.”
“Leave it to yours truly,” said Henry.
His father carefully made a copy of the telegram.
“H'm!” he grunted. “Wants to cross Water Street at B and build out
Front Street. Well, I dare say nobody will kick over the traces at that.
Nothing but warehouses and lumber-drying yards along there, anyhow.
Still, come to think of it, Pennington will probably raise a howl about
sparks from the engines of the N. C. O. setting his lumber piles afire.
And he won't relish the idea of that crossing, because that means a
watchman and safety-gates, and he'll have to stand half the cost of
that.”
“He'll be dead against it,” Henry declared. “I know, because at the
Wednesday meeting of the Lumber Manufacturers' Association the subject
of the N. C. O. came up, and Pennington made a talk against it. He said
the N. C. O. ought to be discouraged, if it was a legitimate enterprise,
which he doubted, because the most feasible and natural route for a road
would be from Willits, Mendocino County, north to Sequoia. He said the
N. C. O. didn't tap the main body of the redwood-belt and that his own
road could be extended to act as a feeder to a line that would build in
from the south. I tell you he's dead set against it.”
“Then we won't tell him anything about it, Henry. We'll just pull off
this special session of the council and forget to invite the reporters;
after the job has been put over, Pennington can come around and howl
all he wants. We're not letting a chance like this slip by us without
grabbing a handful of the tail-feathers, Henry. No, sir--not if we know
it.”
“You bet!” said Henry earnestly.
And it was even so. The entire council was present with the exception
of Thatcher, who was home ill. His running mate Yates was heartily
in favour of doing all and sundry of those things which would aid and
encourage the building of the much-to-be-desired railroad and offered
no objection to the motion to grant a sixty-day temporary franchise.
However, he always played ball with the absent Thatcher and he was
fairly well acquainted with his other colleagues on the council; where
they were concerned he was as suspicious as a rattlesnake in August--in
consequence of which he considered it policy to play safe pending
Thatcher's recovery. Rising in his place, he pointed out to the board
the fact that many prominent citizens who yearned for such a road as
the N. C. O. had warned him of the danger of lending official aid and
comfort to a passel of professional promoters and fly-by-nights;
that after all, the N. C. O. might merely be the stalking-horse to a
real-estate boom planned to unload the undesirable timber holdings of
the Trinidad Redwood Lumber Company, in which event it might be well for
the council to proceed with caution. It was Mr. Yates' opinion that for
the present a temporary franchise for thirty days only should be given;
if during that thirty days the N. C. O. exhibited indubitable signs of
activity, he would gladly vote for a thirty-day extension to enable the
matter of a permanent franchise to be taken up in regular order.
This amendment to the original motion met with the unqualified approval
of the Mayor, as he was careful to announce for the benefit of the other
members of the Solid Four. The fact of the matter was, however, that
he was afraid to oppose Yates in such a simple matter through fear that
Yates might grow cantankerous and carry his troubles to the Sequoia
Sentinel--a base trick he had been known to do in the past. After
explaining the advisability of keeping secret for the present the fact
that a thirty-day franchise had been granted, His Honour, with the
consent of the maker of the original motion and the second thereof,
submitted the amended motion to a vote, which was carried unanimously.
At eleven-thirty Thursday morning, therefore, young Henry Poundstone,
having worked the greater part of the previous night preparing the
deeds, delivered both deeds and franchise to Buck Ogilvy at the
latter's hotel. It was with difficulty that the latter could conceal his
tremendous amazement when Henry casually handed him the franchise. True,
he had slipped that fake telegram among the contracts as bait for Henry
and his father, but in his wildest flights of fancy had not looked for
them to swallow hook, line, and sinker. His fondest hope, at the time he
conceived the brilliant idea, was that Henry would show the telegram to
his father and thus inculcate in the old gentleman a friendly feeling
toward the N. C. O. not unmixed with pleasurable anticipations of the
day when Henry Poundstone, Junior, should be one of the most highly
prized members of the legal staff of a public-service corporation.
When he could control his emotions, Mr. Ogilvy gazed approvingly upon
Henry Poundstone. “Mr. Poundstone,” he said solemnly, “I have met some
meteoric young attorneys in my day, but you're the first genuine comet I
have seen in the legal firmament. Do you mind telling me exactly how you
procured this franchise--and why you procured it without explicit orders
from me?”
Henry did his best to look puzzled. “Why,” he said, “you left
that telegram with me, and I concluded that you regarded it as
self-explanatory or else had forgotten to mention it. I knew you were
busy, and I didn't want to bother you with details, so I just went ahead
and filled the order for you. Anything wrong about that?”
“Certainly not. It's perfectly wonderful. But how did you put it over?”
Henry smirked. “My dad's the engineer,” he said bluntly. “If thirty days
ain't enough time, see me and I'll get you thirty days more. And in the
meantime nobody knows a thing about this little deal. What's more, they
won't know. I figured Colonel Pennington might try to block you at that
crossing so I--”
Buck Ogilvy extended his hand in benediction and let it drop lightly on
Henry Poundstone's thin shoulder. Henry quivered with anticipation under
that gentle accolade and swallowed his heart while the great Ogilvy made
a portentous announcement.
“My dear Poundstone,” he said earnestly, “I am not a man to forget
clever work. At the proper time I shall--” He smiled his radiant smile.
“You understand, of course, that I am speaking for and can make you no
firm promises. However--” He smiled again. “All I have to say is that
you'll do!”
“Thank you,” said Henry Poundstone, Junior. “Thank you ever so much.”
CHAPTER XVII
An experience extending over a very active business career of thirty
years had convinced Colonel Seth Pennington of the futility of wracking
his brains in vain speculation over mysteries. In his day he had
been interested in some small public-service corporations, which is
tantamount to saying that he knew peanut politics and had learned that
the very best way to fight the devil is with fire. Frequently he had
found it of great interest and profit to him to know exactly how certain
men spent their time and his money, and since he was a very busy man
himself, naturally he had to delegate somebody else, to procure this
information for him. When, therefore, the Northern California Oregon
Railroad commenced to encroach on the Colonel's time-appropriation for
sleep, he realized that there was but one way in which to conserve his
rest and that was by engaging to fathom the mystery for him a specialist
in the unravelling of mysteries. In times gone by, the Colonel had
found a certain national detective-agency an extremely efficient aid to
well-known commercial agencies, and to these tried and true subordinates
he turned now for explicit and satisfying information anent the Northern
California Outrage!
The information forthcoming from Dun's and Bradstreet's was vague and
unsatisfying. Neither of these two commercial agencies could ascertain
anything of interest regarding the finances of the N. C. O. For the
present the corporation had no office, its destinies in San Francisco
being guarded by a well-known attorney who had declined to make any
statement regarding the company but promised one at an early date. The
board of directors consisted of this attorney, his two assistants, his
stenographer, and Mr. Buchanan Ogilvy. The company had been incorporated
for five million dollars, divided into five million shares of par value
of one dollar each, and five shares had been subscribed! Both agencies
forwarded copies of the articles of incorporation, but since the Colonel
had already read this document in the Sequoia Sentinel, he was not
further interested.
“It looks fishy to me,” the Colonel commented to his manager, “and I'm
more than ever convinced it's a scheme of that Trinidad Redwood Timber
Company to start a timber-boom and unload. And that is something the
Laguna Grande Lumber Company does not view with favour, for the reason
that one of these bright days those Trinidad people will come to their
senses and sell cheap to us. A slight extension of our logging-road
will make that Trinidad timber accessible; hence we are the only logical
customers and should control the situation. However, to be sure is to
be satisfied. Telephone the San Francisco office to have the
detective-agency that handled the longshoremen's strike job for us
send a couple of their best operatives up on the next steamer, with
instructions to report to me on arrival.”
When the operatives reported, the Colonel's orders were brief and
explicit. “I want to know all about a man named Buchanan Ogilvy, who is
up north somewhere procuring rights of way for the Northern California
Oregon Railroad. Find him. Get up with him in the morning and put him to
bed at night. Report to me daily.”
Buck was readily located in the country north of Arcata, and one of the
operatives actually procured a job as chainman with his surveying gang,
while the other kept Ogilvy and his secretary under surveillance. Their
reports, however, yielded the Colonel nothing until the first day of
Buck's return to Sequoia, when the following written report caused the
Colonel to sit up and take notice. It was headed: “Report of Operative
No. 41,” and it read:
Ogilvy in his room until 12 o'clock noon. At 12:05 entered dining room,
leaving at 1 P. M. and proceeding direct to office of Cardigan Redwood
Lumber Company. Operative took post behind a lumber-pile at side of
office so as to command view of interior of office. From manner of
greeting accorded Ogilvy by Bryce Cardigan, operative is of opinion they
had not met before. Ogilvy remained in Cardigan's private office half
an hour, spent another half-hour conversing with young lady in general
office. Young lady a brunette. O. then returned to Hotel Sequoia,
where he wrote several letters in writing-room. At 3 p. M. called to
telephone. At 3:02 p. M. left hurriedly for Cardigan Redwood Lumber
Company's office. Entered private office without waiting to be
announced. Emerged at 3:12, walking slowly and in deep thought. At B and
Cedar streets stopped suddenly, snapped his fingers and started walking
rapidly, in the manner of one who has arrived at a decision. At
3:24 entered the telephone building and placed a long-distance call.
Operative standing at counter close by heard him place call with the
girl on duty. He asked for the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company in San
Francisco.
Concluded his conversation at 3:32 and proceeded to the city hall,
entering the Mayor's office at 3:43 and emerging at 4:10. He then
returned to the Hotel Sequoia and sat in the lobby until handed a
telegram at 4:40; whereupon he entered the telephone-booth and talked
to someone, emerging at 4:43 to go to his room. He returned at 4:46 and
hurried to the law-office of Henry Poundstone, Junior, in the Cardigan
Block. He was with Poundstone until 4:59, when he returned leisurely to
the Hotel Sequoia, carrying a small leather grip. He also had this grip
when he entered Poundstone's office.
Arrived at the hotel at 5:03 and went to his room. At 6:45 he entered
a public automobile in front of the hotel and was driven to No. 846 Elm
Street. The brunette young lady who works m the Cardigan Redwood Lumber
Company's office emerged presently and entered the car, which then
proceeded to No. 38 Redwood Boulevard, where the brunette young lady
alighted and entered the house. She returned at 7 sharp, accompanied by
a young lady whom she introduced to O. All three were then driven to the
Canyon restaurant at 432 Third Street and escorted to a reserved table
in one of the screened-off semi-private rooms along the right side of
the dining room. At 7:15 Bryce Cardigan entered the restaurant and was
escorted by the waiter to the table occupied by O. and party.
At 9:30 entire party left restaurant and entered a Napier car driven by
a half-breed Indian whom the second young lady hailed as George. O. and
the brunette young lady were dropped at 846 Elm Street while Cardigan
and the other young lady proceeded directly to No. 38 Redwood Boulevard.
After aiding the lady to alight, Cardigan talked with her a few minutes
at the gate, then bade her good-night and after waiting until she had
disappeared inside the front door, returned to the automobile and was
driven to his home, while the chauffeur George ran the car into the
Cardigan garage.
Upon returning to Hotel Sequoia, found O. in hotel bar. Saw him to bed
at 10 sharp.
Needless to relate, this report had a most amazing effect upon Colonel
Pennington, and when at length he could recover his mental equilibrium,
he set about quite calmly to analyze the report, word by word and
sentence by sentence, with the result that he promptly arrived at the
following conclusion:
(1) His niece Shirley Sumner was not to be trusted in so far as young
Bryce Cardigan was concerned. Despite her assumption of hostility toward
the fellow since that memorable day in Pennington's woods, the Colonel
was now fully convinced that she had made her peace with him and had
been the recipient of his secret attentions right along. The Colonel was
on the verge of calling his niece up to demand an explanation, but on
second thought decided to wait a few days and see what his gum-shoe men
might have to report further.
(2) The N. C. O. was still a mystery, but a mystery in which Bryce
Cardigan was interested. Moreover, he was anxious to aid the N. C. O. in
every way possible. However, the Colonel could understand this. Cardigan
would aid anything that might possibly tend to lift the Cardigan lumber
interests out from under the iron heel of Colonel Pennington and he
was just young enough and unsophisticated enough to be fooled by that
Trinidad Redwood Timber gang.
(3) The N. C. O. was going to make a mighty bluff, even to the extent of
applying for a franchise to run over the city streets of Sequoia. Hence
Ogilvy's visit to Mayor Poundstone--doubtless on the advice of Bryce
Cardigan. Hence, also, his visit to young Henry Poundstone, whom he had
doubtless engaged as his legal representative in order to ingratiate
himself with the young man's father. Coarse work!
(4) Ogilvy had carried a small leather bag to and from Henry
Poundstone's office. That bag was readily explained. It had contained a
bribe in gold coin and young Henry had been selected as the
go-between. That meant that Mayor Poundstone had agreed to deliver the
franchise--for a consideration; and like the smooth scoundrel he was, he
wanted his bit in gold coin, which could not be marked without the marks
being discovered! Ogilvy had called first on the Mayor to arrange
the details; then he had called on the Mayor's son to complete the
transaction.
(5) If a franchise had been arranged for and the bribe already
delivered, that meant the prompt and unadvertised commencement of
operations. Where (the Colonel asked himself) would these operations
begin? Why, close to the waterfront, where materials could be landed
from the steamer that brought them to Sequoia. At whose mill-dock would
those materials be discharged? Why, Cardigan's dock, of course. Ogilvy
had probably called first on Cardigan to arrange that detail. Yes,
the N. C. O. was going to carry its monumental bluff to the point of
building a mile of track through town. ... No--no, they wouldn't spend
that much money on a bluff; they wouldn't bribe Poundstone unless the
road was meant. And was it a common carrier, after all? Had Cardigan in
some mysterious manner managed to borrow enough money to parallel the
Laguna Grande Lumber Company's logging-road, and was he disguising it as
a common carrier?
The trail was growing hot; the Colonel mopped his brow and concentrated
further. If the N. C. O. was really going to start operations, in order
to move its material from the Cardigan dock to the scene of operations
it would have to cut his (the Colonel's) tracks somewhere on Water
Street. Damnation! That was it. They were trying to slip one over on
him. They were planning to get a jump-crossing in before he should awake
to the situation; they were planning, too, to have the city council slip
through the franchise when nobody was looking, and once the crossing
should be in, they could laugh at Colonel Pennington!
“The scoundrels!” he murmured. “I'm on to them! Cardigan is playing the
game with them. That's why he bought those rails from the old Laurel
Creek spur! Oh, the sly young fox--quoting that portion of our hauling
contract which stipulates that all spurs and extensions of my road, once
it enters Cardigan's lands, must be made at Cardigan's expense! And all
to fool me into thinking he wanted those rails for an extension of his
logging-system. Oh, what a blithering idiot I have been! However, it's
not too late yet. Poundstone is coming over to dinner Thursday night,
and I'll wring the swine dry before he leaves the house. And as for
those rails Cardigan managed to hornswoggle me out of--”
He seized the telephone and fairly shouted to his exchange operator to
get his woods-foreman Jules Rondeau on the line.
“That you, Rondeau?” he shouted when the big French Canadian responded.
“Pennington talking. What has young Cardigan done about those rails I
sold him from the abandoned spur up Laurel Creek?”
“He have two flat-cars upon ze spur now. Dose woods-gang of hees she
tear up dose rails from ze head of ze spur and load in ze flat-cars.”
“The ears haven't left the Laurel Creek spur, then?”
“No, she don't leave yet.”
“See to it, Rondeau, that they do not leave until I give the word.
Understand? Cardigan's woods-boss will call you up and ask you to send
a switch-engine tip to snake them out late this afternoon or to-morrow
afternoon. Tell him the switch-engine is in the shop for repairs or
is busy at other work--anything that will stall him off and delay
delivery.”
“Suppose Bryce Cardigan, he comes around and say 'Why?'” Rondeau queried
cautiously.
“Kill him,” the Colonel retorted coolly. “It strikes me you and the
Black Minorca are rather slow playing even with young Cardigan.”
Rondeau grunted. “I theenk mebbe so you kill heem yourself, boss,” he
replied enigmatically, and hung up.
CHAPTER XVIII
The dictograph which Shirley had asked Bryce to obtain for her in San
Francisco arrived on the regular passenger-steamer on Thursday morning
and Bryce called her up to ask when she desired it sent over.
“Good morning, Mr. Cardigan,” she greeted him cheerily. “How do you feel
this morning? Any the worse for having permitted yourself to be a human
being last night?”
“Why, I feel pretty fine, Shirley. I think it did me a lot of good to
crawl out of my shell last night.”
“You feel encouraged to go on living, eh?”
“Yes.”
“And fighting?”
“By all means.”
“Then, something has occurred of late to give you new courage?”
“Oh, many things. Didn't I give an exhibition of my courage in accepting
Ogilvy's invitation to dinner, knowing you were going to be there?”
She did not like that. “You carry your frankness to extremes, my
friend,” she retorted. “I'm sure I've always been much nicer to you than
you deserve.”
“Nevertheless there wasn't any valid reason why I should tantalize
myself last night.”
“Then why did you come?” He had a suspicion that she was laughing
silently at him.
“Partly to please Ogilvy, who has fallen head over heels in love with
Moira; partly to please Moira, who wanted me to meet you, but mostly to
please myself, because, while I dreaded it, nevertheless I wanted to
see you again. I comforted myself with the thought that for the sake of
appearances we dared not quarrel in the presence of Moira and my friend
Ogilvy, and I dare say you felt the same way. At any rate, I have seldom
had more enjoyment when partaking of a meal with an enemy.”
“Please do not say that,” she answered. “I am your opponent, but not
your enemy.”
“That's nice of you. By the way, Shirley, you may inform your uncle at
breakfast Friday morning about my connection with the N. C. O. In fact,
I think it would be far better for you if you made it a point to do so.”
“Why?”
“Because both Ogilvy and myself have a very strong suspicion that your
uncle has a detective or two on our trails. There was a strange man
rather prevalent around him all day yesterday and I noticed a fellow
following my car last night. He was on a bicycle and followed me home.
I communicated my suspicions to Ogilvy, and this morning he spent two
hours trying to shake the same man off his trail--and couldn't. So I
judge your uncle will learn to-day that you dined with Ogilvy, Moira,
and me last night.”
“Oh, dear! That's terrible.” He could sense her distress.
“Ashamed of having been seen in my company, eh?”
“Please don't. Are you quite serious in this matter?”
“Quite.”
“Uncle Seth will think it so--so strange.”
“He'll probably tell you about it. Better beat him to the issue by
'fessing up, Shirley. Doubtless his suspicions are already aroused, and
if you inform him that you know I am the real builder of the N. C. O.,
he'll think you're a smart woman and that you've been doing a little
private gum-shoe work of your own on behalf of the Laguna Grande Lumber
Company.”
“Which is exactly what I have been doing,” she reminded him.
“I know. But then, I'm not afraid of you, Shirley--that is, any more.
And after Friday morning I'll not be afraid of your uncle. Do tell him
at breakfast. Then watch to see if it affects his appetite.”
“Oh, dear! I feel as if I were a conspirator.”
“I believe you are one. Your dictograph has arrived. Shall I send George
Sea Otter over with it? And have you somebody to install it?”
“Oh, bother! Does it have to be installed?”
“It does. You place the contraption--hide it, rather--in the room where
the conspirators conspire; then you run wires from it into another room
where the detectives listen in on the receivers.”
“Could George Sea Otter install it?”
“I think he could. There is a printed card of instructions, and I dare
say George would find the job no more baffling than the ignition-system
on the Napier.”
“Will he tell anybody?”
“Not if you ask him not to.”
“Not even you?”
“Not even a whisper to himself, Shirley.”
“Very well, then. Please send him over. Thank you so much, Bryce
Cardigan. You're an awful good old sort, after all. Really, it hurts me
to have to oppose you. It would be so much nicer if we didn't have all
those redwood trees to protect, wouldn't it?”
“Let us not argue the question, Shirley. I think I have my redwood trees
protected. Good-bye.”
He had scarcely finished telephoning his home to instruct George Sea
Otter to report with the express package to Shirley when Buck Ogilvy
strolled into the office and tossed a document on his desk. “There's
your little old temporary franchise, old thing,” he announced; and with
many a hearty laugh he related to Bryce the ingenious means by which he
had obtained it. “And now if you will phone up to your logging-camp and
instruct the woods-boss to lay off about fifty men to rest for the day,
pending a hard night's work, and arrange to send them down on the last
log-train to-day, I'll drop around after dinner and we'll fly to that
jump-crossing. Here's a list of the tools we'll need.”
“I'll telephone Colonel Pennington's manager and ask him to kick a
switch-engine in on the Laurel Creek spur and snake those flat-cars with
my rails aboard out to the junction with the main line,” Bryce replied.
And he called up the Laguna Grande Lumber Company--only to be informed
by no less a person than Colonel Pennington himself that it would be
impossible to send the switch-engine in until the following afternoon.
The Colonel was sorry, but the switch-engine was in the shop having the
brick in her fire-box renewed, while the mogul that hauled the log trams
would not have time to attend to the matter, since the flats would have
to be spotted on the sidetrack at Cardigan's log-landing in the woods,
and this could not be done until the last loaded log-train for the day
had been hauled out to make room.
“Why not switch back with the mogul after the logtrain has been hauled
out on the main line?” Bryce demanded pointedly.
Pennington, however, was not trapped. “My dear fellow,” he replied
patronizingly, “quite impossible, I assure you. That old trestle across
the creek, my boy--it hasn't been looked at for years. While I'd send
the light switch-engine over it and have no fears--”
“I happen to know, Colonel, that the big mogul kicked those flats in to
load the rails!”
“I know it. And what happened? Why, that old trestle squeaked and shook
and gave every evidence of being about to buckle in the centre. My
engineer threatened to quit if I sent him in again.”
“Very well. I suppose I'll have to wait until the switch-engine comes
out of the shop,” Bryce replied resignedly, and hung up. He turned
a troubled face to Ogilvy. “Checkmated!” he announced. “Whipped to a
frazzle. The Colonel is lying, Buck, and I've caught him at it. As
a matter of fact, the mogul didn't kick those flats in at all. The
switch-engine did--and I know it. Now I'm going to send a man over to
snoop around Pennington's roundhouse and verify his report about the
switch-engine being in the shop.”
He did so. Half an hour later the messenger returned with the
information that not only was the switch-engine not in the shop but her
fire-box had been overhauled the week before and was reported to be in
excellent condition.
“That settles it,” Buck Ogilvy mourned. “He had gum-shoe men on my
trail, after all; they have reported, and the Colonel is as suspicious
as a rhino. He doesn't know anything, but he smells danger just the
same.”
“Exactly, Buck. So he is delaying the game until he can learn something
definite.” He drummed idly on his desk for several minutes. Then:
“Buck, can you run a locomotive?”
“With one hand, old man.”
“Fine business! Well, I guess we'll put in that crossing to-morrow
night. The switch-engine will be in the roundhouse at Pennington's mill
to-morrow night so we can't steal that; but we can steal the mogul. I'll
just send word up to my woods-boss not to have his train loaded when
the mogul comes up late to-morrow afternoon to haul it down to our
log-landing. He will explain to the engineer and fireman that our big
bull donkey went out and we couldn't get our logs down to the landing
in time to get them loaded that day. Of course, the engine-crew won't
bother to run down to Sequoia for the night--that is, they won't run the
mogul down. They'll just leave her at our log-landing all night and put
up for the night at our camp. However, if they should be forced, because
of their private affairs, to return to Sequoia, they'll borrow my
trackwalker's velocipede. I have one that is driven with a small
gasolene engine--I use it in running back and forth to the logging-camp
in case I fail to connect with a log-train.”
“But how do you know they will put up at your camp all night, Bryce?”
“My men will make them comfortable, and it means they can lie abed until
seven o'clock instead of having to roll out at five o'clock, which would
be the case if they spent the night at this end of the line. If they
do not stay at our logging-camp, the mogul will stay there, provided my
woods-foreman lends them my velocipede. The fireman would prefer that to
firing that big mogul all the way back to Sequoia.”
“Yes,” Buck agreed, “I think he would.”
“There is a slight grade at our log-landing. I know that, because the
air leaked out of the brakes on a log-train I was on a short time
ago, and the train ran away with me. Now, the engine-crew will set the
airbrakes on the mogul and leave her with steam up to throb all night;
they'll not blow her down, for that would mean work firing her in the
morning. Our task, Buck, will be to throw off the airbrakes and let her
glide silently out of our log-landing. About a mile down the road we'll
stop, get up steam, run down to the junction with the main line, back
in on the Laurel Creek spur, couple on to those flat-cars and breeze
merrily down to Sequoia with them. They'll be loaded waiting for us; our
men will be congregated in our dry-yard just off Water Street near B,
waiting for us to arrive with the rails--and bingo--we go to it. After
we drop the flats, we'll run the engine back to the woods, leave it
where we found it, return a-flying on the velocipede, if it's there, or
in my automobile, if it isn't there. You can get back in ample time to
superintend the cutting of the crossing!”
“Spoken like a man!” quoth Buck Ogilvy. “You're the one man in this
world for whom I'd steal a locomotive. 'At-a boy!”
Had either of the conspirators known of Pennington's plans to entertain
Mayor Poundstone at dinner on Thursday night, it is probable they would
not have cheered until those flat-cars were out of the woods.
CHAPTER XXIX
Mayor Poundstone and his wife arrived at the Pennington home in Redwood
Boulevard at six forty-five Thursday evening. It was with a profound
feeling of relief that His Honour lifted the lady from their modest
little “flivver,” for once inside the Pennington house, he felt,
he would be free from a peculiarly devilish brand of persecution
inaugurated by his wife about three months previously. Mrs. Poundstone
wanted a new automobile. And she had entered upon a campaign of nagging
and complaint; hoping to wear Poundstone's resistance down to the point
where he would be willing to barter his hope of salvation in return for
a guarantee of peace on earth.
“I feel like a perfect fool, calling upon these people in this filthy
little rattletrap,” Mrs. Poundstone protested as they passed up the
cement walk toward the Pennington portal.
Mayor Poundstone paused. Had he been Medusa, the glance he bent upon
his spouse would have transformed her instantly into a not particularly
symmetrical statue of concrete. He had reached the breaking-point.
“In pity's name, woman,” he growled, “talk about something else. Give me
one night of peace. Let me enjoy my dinner and this visit.”
“I can't help it,” Mrs. P. retorted with asperity. She pointed to
Shirley Sumner's car parked under the porte-cochere. “If I had a sedan
like that, I could die happy. And it only cost thirty-two hundred and
fifty dollars.”
“I paid six hundred and fifty for the rattletrap, and I couldn't afford
that,” he almost whimpered. “You were happy with it until I was elected
mayor.”
“You forget our social position, my dear,” she purred sweetly.
He could have struck her. “Hang your social position,” he gritted
savagely. “Shut up, will you? Social position in a sawmill town! Rats!”
“Sh--sh! Control yourself, Henry!” She plucked gently at his arm; with
her other hand she lifted the huge knocker on the front door.
“Dammit, you'll drive me crazy yet,” Poundstone gurgled, and subsided.
The Pennington butler, a very superior person, opened the door and swept
them with a faintly disapproving glance. It is possible that he found
Mayor Poundstone, who was adorned with a white string tie, a soft slouch
hat, a Prince Albert coat, and horseshoe cut vest, mildly amusing.
The Poundstones entered. At the entrance to the living room the butler
announced sonorously: “Mayor Poundstone and Mrs. Poundstone.”
“Glad to see you aboard the ship,” Colonel Pennington boomed with his
best air of hearty expansiveness. “Well, well,” he continued, leading
Mrs. Poundstone to a divan in front of the fire, “this is certainly
delightful. My niece will be down in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Have a
cigarette, Mr. Poundstone.”
In the midst of the commonplace chatter incident to such occasions,
Shirley entered the room; and the Colonel, leaving her to entertain the
guests, went to a small sideboard in one corner and brought forth the
“materials,” as he jocularly termed them. James appeared like magic
with a tray, glasses, and tiny serviettes, and the Colonel's elixir was
passed to the company.
“To your beautiful eyes, Mrs. Poundstone,” was Pennington's debonair
toast as he fixed Mrs. P.'s green orbs with his own. “Poundstone, your
very good health, sir.”
“Dee-licious,” murmured Mrs. Poundstone. “Perfectly dee-licious. And not
a bit strong!”
“Have another,” her hospitable host suggested, and he poured it, quite
oblivious of the frightened wink which the mayor telegraphed his wife.
“I will, if Miss Sumner will join me,” Mrs. P. acquiesced.
“Thanks. I seldom drink a cocktail, and one is always my limit,” Shirley
replied smilingly.
“Oh, well,” the Colonel retorted agreeably, “we'll make it a
three-cornered festival. Poundstone, smoke up.”
They “smoked up,” and Poundstone prayed to his rather nebulous gods that
Mrs. P. would not discuss automobiles during the dinner.
Alas! The Colonel's cocktails were not unduly fortified, but for all
that, the two which Mrs. Poundstone had assimilated contained just
sufficient “kick” to loosen the lady's tongue without thickening
it. Consequently, about the time the piece de resistance made its
appearance, she threw caution to the winds and adverted to the subject
closest to her heart.
“I was telling Henry as we came up the walk how greatly I envied you
that beautiful sedan, Miss Sumner,” she gushed. “Isn't it a perfectly
stunning car?”
Poundstone made one futile attempt to head her off. “And I was telling
Mrs. Poundstone,” he struck in with a pathetic attempt to appear
humorous and condescending, “that a little jitney was our gait, and
that she might as well abandon her passionate yearning for a closed car.
Angelina, my dear, something tells me I'm going to enjoy this dinner
a whole lot more if you'll just make up your mind to be real nice and
resign yourself to the inevitable.”
“Never, my dear, never.” She shook a coy finger at him. “You dear old
tightie,” she cooed, “you don't realize what a closed car means to a
woman.” She turned to Shirley. “How an open car does blow one around, my
dear!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Shirley innocently.
“Heard the McKinnon people had a man killed up in their woods yesterday,
Colonel,” Poundstone remarked, hoping against hope to divert the
conversation.
“Yes. The fellow's own fault,” Pennington replied. “He was one of those
employees who held to the opinion that every man is the captain of his
own soul and the sole proprietor of his own body--hence that it behooved
him to look after both, in view of the high cost of safety-appliances.
He was warned that the logging-cable was weak at that old splice and
liable to pull out of the becket--and sure enough it did. The free end
of the cable snapped back like a whip, and--”
“I hold to the opinion,” Mrs. Poundstone interrupted, “that if one
wishes for a thing hard enough and just keeps on wishing, one is bound
to get it.”
“My dear,” said Mr. Poundstone impressively, “if you would only confine
yourself to wishing, I assure you your chances for success would be
infinitely brighter.”
There was no mistaking this rebuke; even two cocktails were powerless
to render Mrs. Poundstone oblivious to it. Shirley and her uncle saw
the Mayor's lady flush slightly; they caught the glint of murder in His
Honour's eye; and the keen intelligence of each warned them that closed
cars should be a closed topic of conversation with the Poundstones. With
the nicest tact in the world, Shirley adroitly changed the subject to
some tailored shirt-waists she had observed in the window of a local
dry-goods emporium that day, and Mrs. Poundstone subsided.
About nine o'clock, Shirley, in response to a meaning glance from her
relative, tactfully convoyed Mrs. Poundstone upstairs, leaving her uncle
alone with his prey. Instantly Pennington got down to business.
“Well,” he queried, apropos of nothing, “what do you hear with reference
to the Northern-California-Gregon Railroad?”
“Oh, the usual amount of wind, Colonel. Nobody knows what to make of
that outfit.”
Pennington studied the end of his cigar a moment. “Well, I don't know
what to think of that project either,” he admitted presently, “But while
it looks like a fake, I have a suspicion that where there's so much
smoke, one is likely to discover a little fire. I've been waiting to see
whether or not they will apply for a franchise to enter the city, but
they seem to be taking their time about it.”
“They certainly are a deliberate crowd,” the Mayor murmured.
“Have they made any move to get a franchise?” Pennington asked bluntly.
“If they have, I suppose you would be the first man to hear about it. I
don't mean to be impertinent,” he added with a gracious smile, “but the
fact is I noticed that windbag Ogilvy entering your office in the city
hall the other afternoon, and I couldn't help wondering whether his
visit was social or official.”
“Social--so far as I could observe,” Poundstone replied truthfully,
wondering just how much Pennington knew, and rather apprehensive that he
might get caught in a lie before the evening was over.
“Preliminary to the official visit, I dare say.”
The Colonel puffed thoughtfully for a while--for which the Mayor was
grateful, since it provided time in which to organize himself. Suddenly,
however, Pennington turned toward his guest and fixed the latter with a
serious glance.
“I hadn't anticipated discussing this matter with you, Poundstone, and
you must forgive me for it; but the fact is--I might as well be frank
with you--I am very greatly interested in the operation of this proposed
railroad.”
“Indeed! Financially?”
“Yes, but not in the financial way you think. If that railroad is built,
it will have a very distinct effect on my finances.”
“In just what way?”
“Disastrous.”
“I am amazed, Colonel.”
“You wouldn't if you had given the subject very close consideration. The
logical route for this railroad is from Willits north to Sequoia, not
from Sequoia north to Grant's Pass, Oregon. Such a road as the N.C.O.
contemplates will tap about one third of the redwood belt only, while
a line built in from the south will tap two thirds of it. The remaining
third can be tapped by an extension of my own logging-road; when my own
timber is logged out, I will want other business for my road, and if
the N.C.O. parallels it, I will be left with two streaks of rust on my
hands.”
“Ah, I perceive. So it will, so it will!”
“You agree with me, then, Poundstone, that the N.C.O. is not designed to
foster the best interests of the community. Of course you do.”
“Well, I hadn't given the subject very mature thought, Colonel, but
in the light of your observations it would appear that you are quite
right.”
“Of course I am right. I take it, therefore, that when the N.C.O.
applies for its franchise to run through Sequoia, neither you nor your
city council will consider the proposition at all.”
“I cannot, of course, speak for the city council--” Poundstone began,
but Pennington's cold, amused smile froze further utterance.
“Be frank with me, Poundstone. I am not a child. What I would like to
know is this: will you exert every effort to block that franchise in the
firm conviction that by so doing you will accomplish a laudable public
service?”
Poundstone squirmed. “I should not care, at this time, to go on record,”
he replied evasively. “When I have had time to look into the matter more
thoroughly--”
“Tut-tut, my dear man! Let us not straddle the fence. Business is a
game, and so is politics. Neither knows any sentiment. Suppose you
should favour this N.C.O. crowd in a mistaken idea that you were doing
the right thing, and that subsequently numberless fellow-citizens
developed the idea that you had not done your public duty? Would some of
them not be likely to invoke a recall election and retire you and your
city council--in disgrace?”
“I doubt if they could defeat me, Colonel.”
“I have no such doubt,” Pennington replied pointedly.
Poundstone looked up at him from under lowered lids. “Is that a threat?”
he demanded tremulously.
“My dear fellow! Threaten my guest!” Pennington laughed patronizingly.
“I am giving you advice, Poundstone--and rather good advice, it strikes
me. However, while we're on the subject, I have no hesitancy in telling
you that in the event of a disastrous decision on your part, I should
not feel justified in supporting you.”
He might, with equal frankness, have said: “I would smash you.” To his
guest his meaning was not obscure. Poundstone studied the pattern of
the rug, and Pennington, watching him sharply, saw that the man was
distressed. Then suddenly one of those brilliant inspirations, or
flashes of rare intuition, which had helped so materially to fashion
Pennington into a captain of industry, came to him. He resolved on a
bold stroke.
“Let's not beat about the bush, Poundstone,” he said with the air of a
father patiently striving to induce his child to recant a lie, tell
the truth, and save himself from the parental wrath. “You've been doing
business with Ogilvy; I know it for a fact, and you might as well admit
it.”
Poundstone looked up, red and embarrassed. “If I had known--” he began.
“Certainly, certainly! I realize you acted in perfect good faith.
You're like the majority of people in Sequoia. You're all so crazy for
rail-connection with the outside world that you jump at the first plan
that seems to promise you one. Now, I'm as eager as the others, but if
we are going to have a railroad, I, for one, desire the right kind of
railroad; and the N.C.O. isn't the right kind--that is, not for the
interests I represent. Have you promised Ogilvy a franchise?”
There was no dodging that question. A denial, under the present
circumstances, would be tantamount to an admission; Poundstone could not
guess just how much the Colonel really knew, and it would not do to lie
to him, since eventually the lie must be discovered. Caught between the
horns of a dilemma, Poundstone only knew that Ogilvy could never be
to him such a powerful enemy as Colonel Seth Pennington; so, after the
fashion of his kind, he chose the lesser of two evils. He resolved to
“come clean.”
“The city council has already granted the N.C.O. a temporary franchise,”
he confessed.
Pennington sprang furiously to his feet. “Dammit.” he snarled, “why did
you do that without consulting me?”
“Didn't know you were remotely interested.” Now that the ice was broken,
Poundstone felt relieved and was prepared to defend his act vigorously.
“And we did not commit ourselves irrevocably,” he continued. “The
temporary franchise will expire in twenty-eight days--and in that short
time the N.C.O. cannot even get started.”
“Have you any understanding as to an extension of that temporary
franchise, in case the N.C.O. desires it?”
“Well, yes--not in writing, however. I gave Ogilvy to understand that
if he was not ready in thirty days, an extension could readily be
arranged.”
“Any witnesses?”
“I am not such a fool, sir,” Poundstone declared with asperity. “I had a
notion--I might as well admit it--that you would have serious objection
to having your tracks cut by a jump-crossing at B and Water streets.”
And for no reason in life except to justify himself and inculcate in
Pennington an impression that the latter was dealing with a crafty and
far-seeing mayor, Poundstone smiled boldly and knowingly. “I repeat,”
he said, “that I did not put it in writing.” He leaned back nonchalantly
and blew smoke at the ceiling.
“You oily rascal!” Pennington soliloquized. “You're a smarter man than
I thought. You're trying to play both ends against the middle.” He
recalled the report of his private detective and the incident of
Ogilvy's visit to young Henry Poundstone's office with a small leather
bag; he was more than ever convinced that this bag had contained
the bribe, in gold coin, which had been productive of that temporary
franchise and the verbal understanding for its possible extension.
“Ogilvy did business with you through your son Henry,” he challenged.
Poundstone started violently. “How much did Henry get out of it?”
Pennington continued brutally.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars retainer, and not a cent more,”
Poundstone protested virtuously--and truthfully.
“You're not so good a business man as I gave you credit for being,” the
Colonel retorted mirthfully “Two hundred and fifty dollars! Oh, Lord!
Poundstone, you're funny. Upon my word, you're a scream.” And the
Colonel gave himself up to a sincerely hearty laugh. “You call it a
retainer,” he continued presently, “but a grand jury might call it
something else. However,” he went on after a slight pause, “you're not
in politics for your health; so let's get down to brass tacks. How much
do you want to deny the N.C.O. not only an extension of that temporary
franchise but also a permanent franchise when they apply for it?”
Poundstone rose with great dignity. “Colonel Pennington, sir,” he said,
“you insult me.”
“Sit down. You've been insulted that way before now. Shall we say one
thousand dollars per each for your three good councilmen and true, and
for yourself that sedan of my niece's? It's a good car. Last year's
model, but only run about four thousand miles and in tiptop condition.
It's always had the best of care, and I imagine it will please Mrs. P.
immensely and grant you surcease from sorrow. Of course, I will not give
it to you. I'll sell it to you--five hundred down upon the signing of
the agreement, and in lieu of the cash, I will take over that jitney
Mrs. Poundstone finds so distasteful. Then I will employ your son Henry
as the attorney for the Laguna Grande Lumber Company and give him a
retainer of twenty-five hundred dollars for one year. I will leave it to
you to get this twenty-five hundred dollars from Henry and pay my niece
cash for the car. Doesn't that strike you as a perfectly safe and sane
proposition?”
Had a vista of paradise opened up before Mr. Poundstone, he could not
have been more thrilled. He had been absolutely honest in
his plea to Mrs. Poundstone that he could not afford a
thirty-two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar sedan, much as he longed to oblige
her and gain a greatly to be desired peace. And now the price was
dangling before his eyes, so to speak. At any rate it was parked in the
porte-cochere not fifty feet distant!
For the space of a minute the Mayor weighed his son's future as a
corporation attorney against his own future as mayor of Sequoia--and
Henry lost.
“It might be arranged, Colonel,” he murmured in a low voice--the voice
of shame.
“It is already arranged,” the Colonel replied cheerfully. “Leave your
jit at the front gate and drive home in Shirley's car. I'll arrange
matters with her.” He laughed shortly. “It means, of course, that I'll
have to telegraph to San Francisco to-morrow and buy her a later model.
Thank goodness, she has a birthday to-morrow! Have a fresh cigar,
Mayor.”
Riding home that night in Shirley Sumner's car Mrs. Poundstone leaned
suddenly toward her husband, threw a fat arm around his neck and kissed
him. “Oh, Henry, you darling!” she purred. “What did I tell you? If a
person only wishes hard enough--”
“Oh, go to the devil!” he roared angrily. “You've nagged me into it.
Shut up and take your arm away. Do you want me to wreck the car before
we've had it an hour?”
As for Colonel Pennington, he had little difficulty in explaining
the deal to Shirley, who was sleepy and not at all interested. The
Poundstones had bored her to extinction, and upon her uncle's assurance
that she would have a new car within a week, she thanked him and for the
first time retired without offering her cheek for his good-night
kiss. Shortly thereafter the Colonel sought his own virtuous couch and
prepared to surrender himself to the first good sleep in three weeks.
He laid the flattering unction to his soul that Bryce Cardigan had dealt
him a poor hand from a marked deck and he had played it exceedingly
well. “Lucky I blocked the young beggar from getting those rails out of
the Laurel Creek spur,” he mused, “or he'd have had his jump-crossing
in overnight--and then where the devil would I have been? Up Salt Creek
without a paddle--and all the courts in Christendom would avail me
nothing.”
He was dozing off, when a sound smote upon his ears. Instantly he was
wide awake, listening intently, his head cocked on one side. The sound
grew louder; evidently it was approaching Sequoia--and with a bound the
Colonel sat up in bed, trembling in every limb.
Suddenly, out of the deep, rumbling diapason he heard a sharp
click--then another and another. He counted them--six in all.
“A locomotive and two flat-cars!” he murmured. “And they just passed
over the switch leading from the main-line tracks out to my log-dump.
That means the train is going down Water Street to the switch into
Cardigan's yard. By George, they've outwitted me!”
With the agility of a boy he sprang into his clothes, raced downstairs,
and leaped into Mayor Poundstone's jitney, standing in the darkness at
the front gate.
CHAPTER XXX
The success of Bryce Cardigan's plan for getting Ms rails down from
Laurel Creek depended entirely upon the whimsy which might seize
the crew of the big mogul that hauled the last load of logs out of
Cardigan's redwoods on Thursday afternoon. Should the engineer and
fireman decide to leave the locomotive at the logging-camp for the
night, Bryce's task would be as simple as turning a hose down a
squirrel-hole. On the other hand, should they run back to Sequoia with
the engine, he and Ogilvy faced the alternative of “borrowing” it from
the Laguna Grande Lumber Company's roundhouse; and that operation, in
view of the fact that Pennington's night watchman would be certain to
hear the engine leaving, offered difficulties.
Throughout the afternoon, after having sent his orders in writing to
the woods-boss, via George Sea Otter (for he dared not trust to the
telephone), be waited in his office for a telephone-call from the
logging-camp as to what action the engine-crew had taken. He could
not work; he could not think. He only knew that all depended upon the
success of his coup to-night. Finally, at a quarter of six, Curtis, his
woods-boss rang in.
“They're staying here all night, sir,” he reported.
“House them as far from the log-landing as possible, and organize a
poker-game to keep them busy in case they don't go to bed before eight
o'clock,” Bryce ordered. “In the meantime, send a man you can trust--Jim
Harding, who runs the big bull-donkey, will do--down to the locomotive
to keep steam up until I arrive.”
He had scarcely hung up, when Buck Ogilvy came into the office. “Well?”
he queried casually.
“Safe-o, Buck!” replied Bryce. “How about your end of the contract?”
“Crowbars, picks, shovels, hack-saws to cut the rails, lanterns to work
by, and men to do the work will be cached in your lumber-yard by nine
o'clock, waiting for the rails to arrive.”
Bryce nodded his approval, “Then I suppose there's nothing to do but get
a bite of dinner and proceed to business.”
Buck insisted on keeping an engagement to dine with Moira, and Bryce
agreed to call for him at the Bon Gusto restaurant. Then Bryce went home
to dine with his father. Old Cardigan was happier than his son had seen
him since the return of the latter to Sequoia.
“Well, sonny, I've had a mighty pleasant afternoon,” he declared as
Bryce led him to the dinner-table. “I've been up to the Valley of the
Giants.”
Bryce was amazed. “Why, how could you?” he demanded. “The old skid-road
is impassable, and after you leave the end of the skid-road, the trail
in to Mother's grave is so overgrown with buckthorn and wild lilac I
doubt if a rabbit could get through it comfortably.”
“Not a bit of it,” the old man replied. “Somebody has gone to work and
planked that old skid-road and put up a hand-railing on each side, while
the trail through the Giants has been grubbed out and smoothed over. All
that old logging-cable I abandoned in those choppings has been strung
from tree to tree alongside the path on both sides. I can go up there
alone now, once George sets me on the old skid-road; I can't get lost.”
“How did you discover this?” Bryce demanded.
“Judge Moore, representing the new owner, called round this morning
and took me in tow. He said his client knew the property held for me a
certain sentimental value which wasn't transferred in the deed, and
so the Judge had been instructed to have the skid-road planked and the
forest trail grubbed out--for me. It appears that the Valley is going to
be a public park, after all, but for the present and while I live, it is
my private park.”
“This is perfectly amazing, partner.”
“It's mighty comforting,” his father admitted. “Guess the new owner must
be one of my old friends--perhaps somebody I did a favour for once--and
this is his way of repaying. Remember the old sugar-pine windfall we
used to sit on? Well, it's rotted through, and bears have clawed it into
chips in their search for grubs, but the new owner had a seat put in
there for me--just the kind of seat I like--a lumberjack's rocking-chair
made from an old vinegar-barrel. I sat in it, and the Judge left me,
and I did a right smart lot o' thinking. And while it didn't lead me
anywhere, still I--er--”
“You felt better, didn't you?” his son suggested.
John Cardigan nodded. “I'd like to know the name of the owner,” he said
presently. “I'd like mighty well to say thank you to him. It isn't usual
for people nowadays to have as much respect for sentiment in an old
duffer like me as the fellow has. He sort of makes me feel as if I
hadn't sold at all.”
Buck Ogilvy came out of the Bon Gusto restaurant with Moira, just as
Bryce, with George Sea Otter at the wheel of the Napier, drove up to
the curb. They left Moira at her boarding-house, and rolled noiselessly
away.
At nine o'clock they arrived at Cardigan's log-landing and found Jim
Harding, the bull-donkey engineer, placidly smoking his pipe in the cab.
Bryce hailed him.
“That you, Jim?”
“You bet.”
“Run up to Jabe Curtis's shanty, and tell him we're here. Have him
gather his gang and bring two pairs of overalls and two jumpers--large
size--with him when he comes.”
Harding vanished into the darkness, and Buck Ogilvy climbed up into the
cab and glanced at the steam-gauge. “A hundred and forty,” he announced.
“Good enough!”
Presently the woods-boss, accompanied by thirty of his best men, came
down to the log-landing. At Bryce's order they clambered aboard the
engine and tender, hanging on the steps, on the roof of the cab, on the
cowcatcher--anywhere they could find a toe-hold. Harding cast aside the
two old ties which the careful engine-crew had placed across the tracks
in front of the drivers as additional precaution; Buck Ogilvy cut off
the air, and the locomotive and tender began to glide slowly down the
almost imperceptible grade. With a slight click it cleared the switch
and slid out onto the Cardigan lateral, swiftly gathering speed. A
quarter of a mile down the line Buck Ogilvy applied the brakes and eased
her down to twenty miles per hour.
At the junction with the main line Buck backed briskly up into the
Laguna Grande woods, and coupled to the two loaded flat-cars. The
woods-gang scrambled aboard the flats, and the train pulled out for
Sequoia. Forty minutes later they rumbled down Water Street and slid to
a grinding halt at the intersection of B Street.
From the darkness of Cardigan's drying-yard, where they had been
waiting, twenty picked men of the mill-crew now emerged, bearing
lanterns and tools. Under Buck Ogilvy's direction the dirt promptly
began to fly, while the woods-crew unloaded the rails and piled them
close to the sidewalk.
Suddenly a voice, harsh and strident with passion, rose above the thud
of the picks and the clang of metal.
“Who's in charge here, and what in blazes do you mean by cutting my
tracks?”
Bryce turned in time to behold Colonel Seth Pennington leap from an
automobile and advance upon Buck Ogilvy. Ogilvy held a lantern up to the
Colonel's face and surveyed Pennington calmly.
“Colonel,” he began with exasperating politeness, “--I presume you are
Colonel Pennington--my name is Buchanan P. Ogilvy, and I am in charge
of these operations. I am the vice-president and general manager of the
N.C.O., and I am engaged in the blithe task of making a jump-crossing
of your rails. I had hoped to accomplish this without your knowledge
or consent, but now that you are here, that hope, of course, has died
a-bornin'. Have a cigar.” And he thrust a perfecco under the Colonel's
nose. Pennington struck it to the ground, and on the instant, half a
dozen rough rascals emptied their shovels over him. He was deluged with
dirt.
“Stand back, Colonel, stand back, if you please. You're in the way of
the shovellers,” Buck Ogilvy warned him soothingly.
Bryce Cardigan came over, and at sight of him Pennington choked with
fury. “You--you--” he sputtered, unable to say more.
“I'm the N.C.O.,” Bryce replied. “Nice little fiction that of yours
about the switch-engine being laid up in the shops and the Laurel Creek
bridge being unsafe for this big mogul.” He looked Pennington over with
frank admiration. “You're certainly on the job, Colonel. I'll say that
much for you. The man who plans to defeat you must jump far and fast, or
his tail will be trod on.”
“You've stolen my engine,” Pennington almost screamed. “I'll have the
law on you for grand larceny.”
“Tut-tut! You don't know who stole your engine. For all you know, your
own engine-crew may have run it down here.”
“I'll attend to you, sir,” Pennington replied, and he turned to enter
Mayor Poundstone's little flivver.
“Not to-night, at least,” Bryce retorted gently. “Having gone this far,
I would be a poor general to permit you to escape now with the news of
your discovery. You'd be down here in an hour with a couple of hundred
members of your mill-crew and give us the rush. You will oblige me,
Colonel Pennington, by remaining exactly where you are until I give you
permission to depart.”
“And if I refuse--”
“Then I shall manhandle you, truss you up like a fowl in the tonneau of
your car, and gag you.”
To Bryce's infinite surprise the Colonel smiled. “Oh, very well!” he
replied. “I guess you've got the bulge on me, young man. Do you mind if
I sit in the warm cab of my own engine? I came away in such a hurry I
quite forgot my overcoat.”
“Not at all. I'll sit up there and keep you company.”
Half an hour passed. An automobile came slowly up Water Street and
paused half a block away, evidently reconnoitering the situation.
Instantly the Colonel thrust his head out the cab window.
“Sexton!” he shouted. “Cardigan's cutting in a crossing. He's holding me
here against my will. Get the mill-crew together and phone for Rondeau
and his woods-crew. Send the switch-engine and a couple of flats up for
them. Phone Poundstone. Tell him to have the chief of police--”
Bryce Cardigan's great hand closed over the Colonel's neck, while
down Water Street a dark streak that was Buck Ogilvy sped toward the
automobile, intending to climb in and make Pennington's manager a
prisoner also. He was too late, however. Sexton swung his car and
departed at full speed down Water Street, leaving the disappointed Buck
to return panting to the scene of operations.
Bryce Cardigan released his hold on Pennington's neck. “You win,
Colonel,” he announced. “No good can come of holding you here any
longer. Into your car and on your way.”
“Thank you, young man,” the Colonel answered, and there was a metallic
ring in his voice. He looked at his watch in the glare of a torch.
“Plenty of time,” he murmured. “Curfew shall not ring to-night.” Quite
deliberately he climbed into the Mayor's late source of woe and breezed
away.
Colonel Pennington did not at once return to his home, however. Instead,
he drove up to the business centre of the town. The streets were
deserted, but one saloon--the Sawdust Pile--was still open.
Pennington strode through the bar and into the back room, where a
number of poker-games were in progress. For a moment he stood, his cold,
ophidian glance circling the room until it came to rest on no less a
personage than the Black Minorca, an individual with whom the reader has
already had some slight acquaintance. It will be recalled that the
Black Minorca led the futile rush against Bryce Cardigan that day in
Pennington's woods.
The Colonel approached the table where the Black Minorca sat thumbing
the edges of his cards, and touched the cholo on the shoulder. The Black
Minorca turned, and Pennington nodded to him to follow; whereupon the
latter cashed in his chips and joined his employer on the sidewalk. Here
a whispered conversation ensued, and at its conclusion the Black Minorca
nodded vigorously.
“Sure!” he assured the Colonel. “I'll fix 'em good and plenty.”
Together Pennington and the Black Minorca entered the automobile and
proceeded swiftly to the Laguna Grande Lumber Company's mill-office.
From a locker the Colonel produced a repeating rifle and three boxes of
cartridges, which he handed to the cholo, who departed without further
ado into the night.
Twenty minutes later, from the top of a lumber-pile in Cardigan's
drying-yard, Bryce Cardigan saw the flash of a rifle and felt a sudden
sting on his left forearm. He leaped around in front of the cowcatcher
to gain the shelter of the engine, and another bullet struck at his feet
and ricocheted off into the night. It was followed by a fusillade, the
bullets kicking up the freshly disturbed earth among the workers and
sending them scurrying to various points of safety. In an instant the
crossing was deserted, and work had been stopped, while from the top of
the adjacent lumber-pile the Black Minorca poured a stream of lead
and filthy invective at every point which he suspected of harbouring a
Cardigan follower.
“I don't think he's hurt anybody,” Buck Ogilvy whispered as he crouched
with Bryce beside the engine, “but that's due to his marksmanship rather
than his intentions.”
“He tried hard enough to plug me,” Bryce declared, and showed the hole
through his sleeve. “They call him the Black Minorca, and he's a mongrel
greaser who'd kill his own mother for a fifty-dollar bill.”
“I'd like to plug him,” Buck murmured regretfully.
“What would be the use? This will be his last night in Humboldt
County--”
A rifle shot rang out from the side of B Street; from the lumber-pile
across the street, Bryce and Ogilvy heard a suppressed grunt of pain,
and a crash as of a breaking board. Instantly out of the shadows George
Sea Otter came padding on velvet feet, rifle in hand--and then Bryce
understood.
“All right, boss,” said George simply as he joined Bryce and Ogilvy
under the lee of the locomotive. “Now we get busy again.”
“Safe-o, men,” Ogilvy called. “Back to the job.” And while Bryce,
followed by the careless George Sea Otter, went into the lumber-yard to
succour the enemy, Ogilvy set an example to the men by stepping into the
open and starting briskly to work with a shovel.
At the bottom of the pile of lumber the Black Minorca was discovered
with a severe flesh-wound in his right hip; also he was suffering from
numerous bruises and contusions. George Sea Otter possessed himself of
the fallen cholo's rifle, while Bryce picked the wretch up and carried
him to his automobile.
“Take the swine over to the Laguna Grande Lumber Company's hospital and
tell them to patch him up,” he ordered George Sea Otter. “I'll keep both
rifles and the ammunition here for Jules Rondeau and his woods-gang.
They'll probably be dropping in on us about two a.m., if I know anything
about Colonel Pennington's way of doing things.”
CHAPTER XXXI
Having dispatched the Black Minorca to hold up the work until the
arrival of reinforcements, Colonel Pennington fairly burned the streets
en route to his home. He realized that there would be no more sleep
for him that night, and he was desirous of getting into a heavy ulster
before venturing forth again into the night air.
The violent slam with which he closed the front door after him brought
Shirley, in dressing-gown and slippers, to the staircase.
“Uncle Seth!” she called.
“Here!” he replied from the hall below.
“What's the matter?”
“There's the devil to pay,” he answered. “That fellow Cardigan is back
of the N.C.O., after all, and he and Ogilvy have a gang of fifty
men down at the intersection of Water and B streets, cutting in a
jump-crossing of our line.”
He dashed into the living room, and she heard him calling frantically
into the telephone.
“At last!” she murmured, and crept down the stairs, pausing behind the
heavy portieres at the entrance to the living room.
“That you, Poundstone?” she heard him saying rapidly into the
transmitter. “Pennington speaking. Young Bryce Cardigan is behind that
N.C.O. outfit, and it's a logging-road and not intended to build through
to Grant's Pass at all. Cardigan and Ogilvy are at Water and B streets
this very instant with a gang of fifty men cutting in a jump-crossing of
my line, curse them! They'll have it in by six o'clock to-morrow morning
if something isn't done--and once they get it in, the fat's in the fire.
“Telephone the chief of police and order him to take his entire force
down there, if necessary, and stop that work. To blazes with that
temporary franchise! You stop that work for two hours, and I'll do
the rest. Tell the chief of police not to recognize that temporary
franchise. He can be suspicious of it, can't he, and refuse to let
the work go on until he finds you? And you can be hard to find for two
hours, can you not? Delay, delay, man! That's all I want... Yes, yes,
I understand. You get down about daylight and roast the chief of police
for interfering, but in the meantime!... Thank you, Poundstone, thank
you. Good-bye.”
He stood at the telephone, the receiver still held to his ear and his
right forefinger holding down the hook while the line cleared. When
he spoke again, Shirley knew he was calling his mill-office. He got a
response immediately, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour.
“Sexton? Pennington speaking. I've sent over the Black Minorca with a
rifle and sixty rounds of ammunition... What? You can hear him shooting
already? Bully boy with a crockery eye! He'll clean that gang out
and keep them from working until the police arrive. You've telephoned
Rondeau, have you?... Good! He'll have his men waiting at the
log-landing, and there'll be no delay. As soon as you've seen the
switch-engine started for the woods, meet me down at Water and B
streets. Sexton, we've got to block them. It means a loss of millions to
me if we fail!”
Shirley was standing in the doorway as he faced about from the
telephone. “Uncle Seth,” she said quietly, “use any honourable method of
defeating Bryce Cardigan, but call off the Black Minorca. I shall hold
you personally responsible for Bryce Cardigan's life, and if you fail
me, I shall never forgive you.”
“Silly, silly girl!” he soothed her. “Don't you know I would not stoop
to bush-whacking? There's some shooting going on, but its wild shooting,
just to frighten Cardigan and his men off the job.”
“You can't frighten him,” she cried passionately, “You know you can't.
He'll kill the Black Minorca, or the Black Minorca will kill him. Go
instantly and stop it.”
“All right, all right!” he said rather humbly, and sprang down the front
steps into the waiting car. “I'll play the game fairly, Shirley, never
fear.”
She stood in the doorway and watched the red tail-light, like a
malevolent eye, disappear down the street. And presently as she stood
there, down the boulevard a huge gray car came slipping noiselessly--so
noiselessly, in fact, that Shirley recognized it by that very quality of
silence. It was Bryce Cardigan's Napier.
“George!” she called. “Come here.”
The car slid over to the gate and stopped at the sight of the slim white
figure running down the garden walk.
“Is Mr. Cardigan hurt?” she demanded in an agony of suspense.
George Sea Otter grunted contemptuously. “Nobody hurt 'cept the Black
Minorca. I am taking him to your company hospital, miss. He tried to
shoot my boss, so I shoot him myself once through the leg. Now my boss
says: 'Take him to the Laguna Grande hospital, George.' Me, I would drop
this greaser in the bay if I was the boss.”
She laughed hysterically. “On your way back from the hospital stop and
pick me up, George,” she ordered. “This senseless feud has gone far
enough. I must stop it--at once.”
He touched his broad hat, and she returned to the house to dress.
Meanwhile Colonel Pennington had reached the crossing once more,
simultaneously with the arrival of Sam Perkins, the chief of police,
accompanied by two automobiles crammed with patrolmen. Perkins strutted
up to Bryce Cardigan and Buck Ogilvy.
“What's the meaning of all this row, Mr. Cardigan?” he demanded.
“Something has slipped, Sam,” Bryce retorted pleasantly. “You've been
calling me Bryce for the past twenty years, and now you're mistering me!
The meaning of this row, you ask?” Bryce continued. “Well, I'm engaged
in making a jump-crossing of Colonel Pennington's tracks, under a
temporary franchise granted me by the city of Sequoia. Here's the
franchise.” And he thrust the document under the police chief's nose.
“This is the first I've heard about any franchise,” Sam Perkins replied
suspiciously. “Seems to me you been mighty secret about this job. How do
I know this ain't a forgery?”
“Call up the mayor and ask him,” Bryce suggested.