.

hello! Hold on, central!—Will you call him to the 'phone, please?”

      “Why not?”

      “Where? At the shops?”

      “Sorry, but I guess you'll have to interrupt him. Important business.”

      “Can't help it if the whole road's blocked. Get him as quick as you can and call us up. Good-by.”

      Harvey waited ten minutes, twenty, thirty, thirty-five—then the bell rang.

      “Hello!”

      “Yes.”

      “Not there?”

      “Wait a minute. You say he took the 4.30?”

      “All right. Good-by.”

      Harvey turned back to his desk with a scowl. He passed the next hour clearing up what was left of the day's work; then he went out to dinner, and at 6.45 met Jim Weeks at the Northern Station.

      “Hello,” said the magnate, “what's up?”

      “Porter is,” replied Harvey. “I cornered him and McNally with Thompson and Wing, and I think McNally's gone after the Tillman stock.”

      “I guess not,” Jim smiled indulgently. “They can't touch it. Tell me what you know.”

      Harvey related his experience, and as one detail followed another Jim's eyebrows came together. He took out his watch and looked at it, then his eye swept the broad row of trains in the gloomy, barnlike station. The hands on the three-sided clock pointed to seven, and the Northern Vestibule Limited began to roll out on its run to Manchester and the West. Suddenly Jim broke in:—

      “I'm going to Tillman. Back to-morrow.”

      He ran down the platform and swung himself, puffing, upon the rear steps of the receding train. Harvey stared a moment, then slowly walked out to the elevated. He had not yet learned to follow the rapid working of Jim Weeks's mind.

      In the meantime Mr. Porter was nervous. Being unsuccessful in his search for Weeks, and seeing the possibility of failure before him, he greeted the hour of five with a frown; but he realized that there was nothing to be done. McNally was on the field and must fight it out alone. It was a quarter after five when he stepped from the elevator at Field's, and confronted a very reproachful young woman.

      “Sorry, dear, but I couldn't get away any sooner.”

      “What was it, dad? That old railroad?”

      “You wouldn't understand it if I told you.”

      Katherine frowned prettily.

      “That's what you always say. Tell me about it.”

      “Well, it was very important that I should see a man before he saw another one.”

      “Did you see him?”

      “No, I couldn't find him.”

      “Does it mean a loss to you, dad?”

      “I hope not, dear. But we must get started.”

      “I thought you never would come. It was lucky that I had company part of the time.”

      “That's good. Who was it?”

      “Mr. West.”

      “Mr. West?—Not Weeks's man—not—”

      Katherine nodded. Her father looked at her puzzled; then his brow slightly relaxed, and he smiled. “By Jove!” he said softly. Katherine was watching him in some surprise.

      “Katherine, you are a brick. You shall have the new cart. Yes, sir. I'll order it to-morrow.”

      “What have I done?”

      “You've saved the day, my dear.” Suddenly he frowned again. “Hold on; when did you see him?”

      “I met him about three. I guess he was here an hour or more.”

      “Couldn't be better! But he must be an awful fool.”

      Katherine bit her lip.

      “Why?” she asked quietly.

      “Don't you see? If he had seen Weeks early enough they might have upset me. He must be an awful fool.”

      Katherine followed him to the elevator with a peculiar expression. She wondered why her father's remark annoyed her.

      Before leaving Manchester Mr. McNally wired to the Tillman City Finance Committee an invitation to dine at the Hotel Tremain at 7.45 P.m. During the journey he matured his plan of campaign.

      This was not likely to be more than mildly exciting, for twenty years of political and financial juggling had fitted Mr. McNally for delicate work. In his connection with various corporations he had learned the art of subduing insubordinate legislatures without friction, if not without expense, and naturally the present task offered few difficulties. That was why, after an hour or so of thought, he straightened up in his seat, bought a paper, and read it with interest, from the foreign news to the foot-ball prospects. Mr. McNally's tastes were cosmopolitan, and now that his method was determined he dismissed M. & T. stock from his mind. He knew Tillman City, and more to the point, he knew Michael Blaney, Chairman of the Council Finance Committee. Finesse would not be needed, subtlety would be lost, with Blaney, and so Mr. McNally was prepared to talk bluntly. And on occasion Mr. McNally could be terseness itself.

      On his arrival he took a cab for the hotel. The Committee were on hand to meet him, and Blaney made him acquainted with the others.

      Michael Blaney was a man of the people. He was tall and angular, hands and face seamed and leathery from the work of earlier days, eyes small and keen, and a scraggy mustache, that petered out at the ends. He had risen by slow but sure stages from a struggling contractor with no pull, to be the absolute monarch of six wards; and as the other seven wards were divided between the pro- and anti-pavers, Blaney held the municipal reins. He still derived an income from city contracts, but his name did not appear on the bids.

      After dinner Mr. McNally led the way to his room, and in a few words announced that he had come for the M. & T. stock. Blaney tipped back in his chair and shook his head.

      “Can't do it, Mr. McNally. It ain't for sale.”

      “So I heard,” said McNally, quietly, “but I want it.”

      “You see it's like this. When they were building the line, we took the stock on a special act—”

      “I understand all that,” McNally interrupted. “That can be fixed.”

      Williams, one of the other two, leaned over the table.

      “We ain't fools enough to go up against Jim Weeks,” he said.

      “Don't worry about Weeks,” replied McNally, “I can take care of him.”

      “Who are you buying for?” asked Blaney.

      McNally looked thoughtfully at the three men, then said quietly:—

      “I am buying for C. & S.C. Jim Weeks is all right, but he can't hold out against us.”

      “Well, I tell you, Mr. McNally, we can't sell.”

      “Why not?”

      “Outside of the original terms—and they sew us up—we never could get it through the Council.”

      McNally folded his hands on the table and looked at Blaney with twinkling eyes.

      “That's all rot, Blaney.”

      “No, it ain't. The boys are right with Weeks.”

      “See here, Blaney. You just stop and ask yourself what Weeks has done for you. He's sunk a lot of your money and a lot of St. Johns's money, to say nothing of Chicago, in a road