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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about it?" he demanded presently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thirty, and myself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah! so that's it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The others searched their brains and gave it up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Phil — Phil — Phil."

Instantly and to his surprise, came the reply.

"Sma — Sma — Sma."

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Yes," flashed the plunging reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Three — days."

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

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

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

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

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

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

In five minutes he was sleeping profoundly.



XXI.—THE CRASH

Around the neck of every great industrial undertaking is hung a chain of unlovely parasites, who fatten on the interruptions to its progress and the fluctuations in its success. These men create nothing—contribute nothing. Playing on the fears and hopes and untempered weakness of the public, they reap where they do not sow and feed the speculative appetite of millions. To them it is negligible whether good men go down or honest effort is rewarded. Predatory by nature and unscrupulous in action, they prey upon their fellows, and, like the wolf, are strangers to mercy and compassion. Their wealth is not an asset to the world, because it represents nothing they have originated, but only that which they have filched from others less shrewd and unscrupulous. They do not hesitate to magnify the false or to bring to ruin what they find most profitably assailable. They have respect for neither genius nor labor, but juggle with the efforts of both in a fierce game for gold.

As the gong struck on the Philadelphia Exchange next morning, a well known operator associated with Marsham's firm threw five thousand shares of Consolidated on the market. It was taken at forty-eight, a loss of two points, and in that first transaction the value of the entire enterprise shrank by half a million.

A moment later, Wimperley knew of it and sent for Birch, but Birch, who had been just as speedily informed, was already on his way. He came in, a little paler than usual. On his heels arrived Stoughton and Riggs.

They were in the padded seclusion of the president's inner office, while two blocks away swelled a storm, whose echoes only reached them in the sharp staccato of the ticker in the corner as it vomited a strip of white paper. Wimperley stood there, the strip slipping between his fingers, while selling orders began to pour in to Philadelphia, and the price of Consolidated crumbled like dust. He could visualize the scene on the floor of the Exchange, the frenzy of men smitten with sudden fear, and the deliberate cold-blooded action of others who lent their weight to this downfall. Marsham was very busy. Greater grew the flood, with sales of so great quantities of stock that they perceived the market was going boldly short. Then came an avalanche of small holdings, till the ticker announced that it had fallen behind the record of transactions and that Consolidated was now offered at thirty-five with no bidders. This was three-quarters of an hour after the Exchange opened.

Stoughton and the others sat quite motionless. The thing was too big for them to grasp at once, but they had a dull sense that the foundation stones of their great pyramid were shifting, that the gigantic structures at St. Marys were dissolving into something phantom-like and tenuous. At this juncture a message was brought in from Clark.

Hear market is very weak. Please buy five thousand for me by way of support.

Wimperley read and handed it silently to Riggs. The little man swallowed a lump in his throat. "By God!" he said unsteadily, "but he's got sand, no doubt about it."

"What's that?" Stoughton demanded dully, and, reaching out, glanced at the telegram. "Why throw Robert Fisher to the wolves? They're doing well enough as it is," he grunted, and relapsed into a brooding silence.

Then began to arrive inquiries from country banks and cancellations from country subscribers. Wimperley read them out as they came in, and, well informed though he was of the wide distribution of Consolidated stock, experienced a slow amazement at the broad range of his followers. Their messages were indignant, despairing, threatening and pathetic. He began to wonder why he had accepted a responsibility which was now for the first time unveiled in such startling proportions. Yesterday the Consolidated was a name to conjure with. To-day it was an epitome of human fear and desperation.

Ten seconds before the noon gong struck on the Exchange, a frantic broker lifted a bull like voice above the uproar.

"Sell five thousand consol at thirty-two, thirty-two!" He bellowed it out raucously. The selling order had been flashed from Toronto.

"Taken at thirty-two," snapped Marsham's operator, who had opened the perilous game that morning, and, smiling, jotted a note on his cuff. He had made just eighty thousand dollars on that one transaction. The market strengthened a little in the afternoon on short covering, the matter of investment being thrown to the winds. Consolidated was now a gambling counter, and the closing quotation stood at thirty-five. Former values had shrunk by some eight millions. Gone was that laborious upbuilding into which Clark and the rest had thrown their very souls; overcast were the efforts of seven years. It was, to most people, a question of what might be made of what was left. The works remained, but, the public concluded, the iron and steel section, the heart of the thing, was unsound. Such is the communicable essence of fear.

At ten minutes after three the directors met to face a situation which was, in all truth, serious enough. Philadelphia banks, smarting from loans made on Consolidated stock, had declined further credit. The first payment of a million dollars for steel rails was indefinitely deferred. Creditors, galvanized by the events of the day, poured in ceaseless demands that their accounts be liquidated, but moneys due the Consolidated for pulp had been realized and diverted into the building of railways and the construction of the rail mill. Birch, his face very grave, ran over all this in a level monotone of a voice, while the rest wearily admitted its truth, and in the middle of the rehearsal a message was brought in from Clark.

Greatly regret events of to-day but am unshakenly confident for the future, given sufficient time to remedy defect in rails which should not take long. Chemical analyses show too high carbon and this can be rectified. Now awaiting remittance for payroll.

Wimperley read it without a trace of accentuation, while Stoughton got up and stared, as once before, at the sky line of Philadelphia.

"Well," drawled Birch dryly, "we've heard from our prophet."

"He's got more confidence in our future than we have in his past," put in Riggs.

Stoughton turned, "What about the payroll?"

"If you have a million or so to spare, we'll send it up. There's more to be met than the payroll." The voice was a trifle insulting, but Stoughton did not notice it, and Birch went on. "There's just one thing we can do, if we can't get money to run."

"Well?" jerked out Riggs, "say it."

"Shut down."

Wimperley's long fingers were drumming the table. He did not fancy himself as the president of a great company in whose works not a wheel was turning.

"I'd like to find some other way out of it. There's going to be hell to pay here, but—"

"Perhaps the ingenious gentleman at St. Marys could help out," said Birch acidly.

At that came a little silence and there appeared the vision of Clark in his office, with his achievements dissolving before his eyes.

"Robert Fisher is no financier," struck in Stoughton wearily.

Wimperley smiled in spite of himself. "Perhaps not, but he mesmerized us into that office. There's only one thing I can see—issue debentures secured by first mortgage."

"Who'll take 'em? We used up all our arguments long ago. Philadelphia doesn't want a mortgage on Robert Fisher, and what about the Pennsylvania farmer?"

"What about him?" asked Wimperley pettishly.

"As I know him, he's a bad loser—he works too hard for it. This is a case of new money from outside, and I for one don't feel like doing any traveling."

"In other words we've demonstrated that whether or not by any fault of ours, we've made a mess of it," said Stoughton with utter candor.

"Something remarkably like it."

"And when Clark told us, months ago, that he wouldn't draw any salary, and that a lot of others were only drawing half salary to help out till the rail mill got going, we should have made provision for possible mistakes, and seen as well that we were getting in over our ears."

"But Clark believed all he told us," piped Riggs with a flash of loyalty.

"Of course he did, and he still does, and because he is still only twenty years ahead of his time he's all the more dangerous."

"Let's get back to this payroll," blurted Stoughton who was getting more and more uncomfortable.

"Fishing's pretty good up there, let him fish for it." The voice of Birch was like ice. He was one of those who by nature are fitted for cold and ruthless action in time of stress. Most of his money had been made across the dissecting table of enterprises, and not at their birth. He was a financial surgeon, but no midwife, and had only been magnetized into his past support by the hypnotic personality of Clark. He was grimly mindful that Marsham, after waiting for years for his opening, had got more than even. Birch's cold mind now wondered for the first time whether, after all, the cut throat game he had once loved to play was worth the candle. Here was American credit and effort massacred by American ruthlessness and revenge. Marsham had pounced upon a weak point in the Consolidated's armor and pierced deep into the body corporate. He had struck to kill.

"And would you shut down the pulp mill—market's good now?" persisted Stoughton.

"I'd rivet the whole thing tight. The railway never paid,—at least directly—that we could reckon. It's costing more to ship pulp on our own boats than the rate at which we could ship by contract—and if they are not going to bring back coke, why run them? Gentlemen, this means a smash—an interval of anxiety, discomfort, loss of prestige, and—"

"Go on, Elisha—" barked Riggs. "Oh, please go on!"

"Prestige—and later reconstruction. In the meantime, we don't spend a cent on running anything, and find out exactly what we owe. Then comes new money, and," he added cynically, "a new bunch of directors."

"And who will arrange that?" Riggs demanded abruptly.

"One Robert Fisher Clark—if he has not lost all his power of magnetism."

"Aren't you guessing a little too fast?"

"No, it's quite possible. His argument will be that we didn't back him to the necessary limit—that another million would have done it—and," concluded Birch reflectively, "that may be perfectly true. But God knows we did what we could. What's this one?" He glanced at Wimperley, who was reading a telegram just brought in.

Waiting your remittance for payroll, necessary that this be provided to-day, otherwise I anticipate serious disturbance here. It is advisable that I do not come to Philadelphia just yet as my leaving here would be wrongly interpreted.

R.F.C.

There fell a moment's silence, instantly recognized by all four as the precursor of grave events. Birch had spoken the thought that lurked in all their minds. To continue running meant another payroll to be met.

It now appeared suicidal to have stretched their resources to the limit of their credit, but not one of them had remotely dreamed that a few thousand tons of steel rails were to drag the whole structure to toppling destruction. Birch, as usual, first pulled himself together.

"It's put up or shut up, and we've got to tell Clark right now."

Little Riggs sighed despondently. This meeting would soon be over and the decision made, after which he would have to face a totally unexpected set of conditions and a circle of friends and investors who would regard him with close and uncomfortable interest.

"Well, I suppose it's shut up!" he hazarded unsteadily.

Birch looked inquiringly at the other two, who nodded without speaking, then began to write. The rest did not even glance at each other, but found absorption in walls and windows and the big map of poignant memory, while the long, waxen fingers moved inexorably on.

"What about this?"

"'Under existing conditions and the impossibility of making immediate financial arrangements for current needs directors decide best to close down all work of every kind at once, giving notice that this will be only temporary. You will report here as soon as in your judgment you can wisely come down.' Is that all right?"

Stoughton bit at his thumbnail and nodded. "I suppose so—and there'll be hell to pay in St. Marys, eh, Wimperley? Our friend the chief constable will be working over time. Remember the beggar? The damn fool was right too."

"Yes, it's all right," said Wimperley, "and now I suppose there'll be writs and injunctions enough to fill the tailrace. We'd better get out and arrange some support for the market. Birch, you compound a comforting statement for the papers. We adjourn till tomorrow at nine-thirty."

They did adjourn, but lingered for an hour digging into the past seven years. It was a talk such as one might expect under the circumstances. Charged with an apprehension but thinly veiled by manner and speech, events took on for them no perspective. They were too close at hand. All this was so intimately their own and Clark's responsibility that every other consideration became instantly submerged, and it was a matter of living for the day, if not for the hour. Had any one at this time told Wimperley or Stoughton that for a pace or two they had merely fallen out of step in the march of progress, and that however depressing might be the present aspect of affairs it did not really affect the preordained outcome, they would have flouted the thought. It is not given to many men to place themselves correctly in the general scheme of the world, and to fairly estimate their own contribution. Thus it was that Wimperley and his associates read on the screen of the present only the word "failure," and were conscious chiefly of a certain self contempt for the arduous part they had played. At the last moment success had been snatched from their grasp.

Stoughton walked slowly home. He was thinking of Manson, the pessimist, who had been right. And such is the interlinking chain of life. Manson, at this moment, was sitting in his office, while his mind harked aimlessly back to the first time he had met the men from Philadelphia. He stared at a telegram that trembled between his thick fingers. His broad face was gray and ghastly. He had been here motionless for some time, when a gentle knock sounded at the door and his wife came timidly in. One glance at his face, and her arms were round his neck.

"What is it, Peter?" she quavered.

He did not look up but held the message so that she might read it.

Sold you out to-day on stop loss order at thirty-two margin being exhausted. Farthing.

She read it wonderingly. "What does it mean; who is Farthing?"

"My Toronto broker—or at least he was," said Manson heavily.

"But I don't understand, dear."

"Ho, I didn't suppose you would; it means I lose my hundred thousand, that's all."

"Had you a hundred thousand?" she whispered.

"Very, very nearly, and now I haven't anything,—that is, I didn't make a cent."

She drew a long breath. "Peter, tell me just how we stand."

"Exactly where we did the day a man named Clark came to St. Marys," he said dully, "with not a cent more."

There followed a little silence, and the tears began to roll down her cheeks. He put his arm round her, and perceived, with astonishment, that they were tears of happiness.

"Peter dear," she said very softly, "you don't know how glad I am that it's all over."

"You mean the hundred thousand!" He stared at her blankly.

"Yes, just that. I know you won't understand, but things have never been the same for me since you began to try and make it. You were different—everything was different."

"But if I had made it you would have been glad."

"Perhaps—I don't know. I'm rather afraid of a hundred thousand dollars," she began to smile a little through her tears, "but now I feel ten years younger. Is that what 'stop loss' means—you don't actually lose anything?"

"Nothing more than I have sent him in this case."

"And you didn't send him my money—not that it's much."

"Good God, Mary, no!"

"Peter," she began gently, "you weren't happy all the time—I could tell that. You were trying to do something you weren't made for—I could see that too. You are very strong—but it isn't that kind of strength. People like us can't do that kind of thing—we feel too much. We haven't got much, but it represents a lot and our lives are in it, and this hundred thousand dollars wouldn't have been that kind of money, would it?"

"No, I suppose not." Manson felt the tumult in his breast subsiding.

"I know you did it for me and the children, but we don't want you to speculate for us. We just want you—as we used to have you. We have enough of everything else, and we'll all be very happy again. Oh, my dear, big, faithful husband." She slipped into his arms and put her head on his great shoulder.

And Manson, holding her to him, felt new springs of emotion unseal themselves within him. The past few years had not been happy ones. As his profits grew, he was conscious of the spectre of anxiety at his elbow. It had been a simple thing to make a thousand and then ten and then twenty, till, as he marched ever faster toward the siren call, he perceived that he was no longer in his own country, but one in which the landmarks were all changed. Now, with the throb of his wife's heart against his own, he acknowledged defeat, but perhaps it was defeat of that which was not himself.

Presently the little woman stirred, brushed the tears from her cheeks, and, smiling, kissed him tenderly.

"I'm happier than I've been for years. Did you ever guess that people here thought you were a rich man?"

"No."

"Well, they did, at least some of them, Mrs. Dibbott for one."

"Then you can put Mrs. Dibbott right."

"Will what has happened at the works make much difference here?"

"Probably a good deal. I'm looking for trouble."

"Up at Ironville?" she said anxiously.

"But I'm good for it." He stretched his great arms, feeling strangely free and fit for his duty.

"What about Mr. Clark?"

At this Manson grew suddenly thoughtful. Caught up in his own anxiety, he had never considered Clark. The figure of the latter began to take on strange proportions. What, he wondered, had Clark lost? Within twenty hours of the time he maintained his unaltered belief, the bottom had dropped out. Or, he queried, had Clark merely said this to prevent him from throwing his stock on the market? He pondered over this, and decided that five thousand shares were negligible amongst millions. Then he felt his wife's inquiring glance.

"I'm sorry for Clark, but I guess he's wise enough to take care of himself."

"I hope so. I've only spoken to him once, but I like him."

She disappeared presently, leaving him busy with special instructions to the police—in case of disturbance. She did not worry about that, being chiefly conscious that a load was gone from her spirit. Singing softly to herself, she went out with gladness in her eyes, and halfway to Filmer's store encountered Mrs. Bowers. The latter looked pale and tired. Bowers, for the past twenty-four hours, had been a much tried man—and his wife reflected it.

"Good evening," said the latter, "you look very fresh. How do you manage it?"

Mrs. Manson, suddenly recalled to earth, smiled gently. "I'm rather happy to-day. I hope Mr. Bowers is not very anxious."

"It's no use saying he isn't, but he doesn't talk about it. How's your husband?"

"Splendid."

"Well, you're the only untroubled pair I've heard of to-day. My husband's in a frightful temper because he didn't sell our land six months ago. He says we'll never sell it now, but I'm just as glad. Is the whole thing going to break up?" Mrs. Bowers swung her parasol toward the rapids.

"I—I don't really know anything about it," said the little woman with a touch of nervousness from which she recovered instantly, then, smiling, "perhaps I'll come over to-morrow."

"Do, there's a heap to talk about, and smile like that just as long as you can—the town needs it."

She walked on, her mind very busy. Without question something excellent had happened to the Mansons—and in a time like this! Manson was said to be in the way of making a fortune, and now, she concluded, he had made it. There was no other explanation for an expression like his wife's when such grim rumors were abroad. A little later she told Mrs. Worden, and both the judge and Bowers heard of it, and next day the story reached a dozen houses in St. Marys. The constable, it was said, for all his pessimism, had been sharper than Clark himself.

But Manson was only a leaf picked up by the edge of the storm in which Clark sat, its unapproachable center. The telegram compiled by Birch and signed by Wimperley, as president, was on his desk, just as the secretary had laid it before he went silently out, unable to meet the mystifying glance of those gray eyes. Clark had never moved nor looked up, nor did he till half an hour later, when he dictated a notice to be posted throughout the works. "All operations will temporarily cease this night at six o'clock. Employees will be notified when to apply for their wages, which will shortly be paid in full. The accounting staff will remain at duty." His voice was level and absolutely expressionless. Then he went out, and, taking the broad trail to the rapids, seated himself a few minutes later in a well remembered place.

The moments lengthened into hours and still he did not move. The sun showed its red disc through the lattice girders of the great bridge, and touched the flashing waters into gold. It was seven years since he had sat here first, and he looked expectantly about for the crested kingfisher. The voice of the river seemed unusually loud, and there was no drone from the works. He began to go over it all, but, desisting from sheer inability, pitched his attention on the rapids. Here, at least, was that which had no shadow of turning. Distinguishing the multitude of notes that lifted their booming uproar, he yielded to the sensation that he was in the midst of them, being carried to the sea.

To-night they seemed relentless, but that again was the reflection of his mood. If he was going down, Wimperley and the rest were going with him. Finally he was able, at some command from this tumult, to disassociate himself from the present and go back to the beginning. Retracing each step, he decided that, were a parallel occasion to arise, he would do the same again. He had listened to the voice of the hills and woods and water, rather than to the voice of Philadelphia, and this, he ultimately concluded, was right. There was no time to brood or forecast the future. What his soul craved was to be persuaded that it was justified up to this hour. Only thus could he find strength for that which was yet to come.

Carrying his solitary reverie still further, he was assured that it would be for him and him alone to find the way out. Wimperley and the others were able men as far as they went, but just as they had always loitered behind his imagination, so now would they be slow in deciphering the riddle in store. He had brought them in, and it would be left for him to bring others in also. Very easily he visualized what had taken place in Philadelphia, and the group in Wimperley's office stood out quite clearly. He felt no particular sympathy for them, nor did it appear that the responsibility was primarily his own because it was his brain that conceived the whole gigantic machine. They had acted according to their final judgment, so had he. With small and genuine investors the case was different, but Clark was well aware that Consolidated stock had been a favorite Pennsylvania gamble for years. As to his own employees, he knew that the works must ultimately go on and could not go on without them. This left only himself to be considered, and at the thought this extraordinary man smiled confidently. He was stranger to that fear which is based on uncertainty of one's own resources.

An hour after sundown he went home and, sending for Bowers, the two sat talking earnestly. For Bowers it had been a day of vicissitude which he was only partially competent to face. Rooted out of a small practice in a small village, and caught up in the sweep of irresistible progress, he had never had to fight for his point. The weight and momentum Clark put before him were too great for that. But now every angle of the Consolidated Company seemed to offer itself for frontal attack. He put this to his chief in justification of his own anxiety.

"It's been a matter of writs and injunctions all day. There are enough in my office now to paper the rail mill."

"Well, why should you worry?"

Bowers glanced up with surprise. "Eh?"

"You're doing your duty, you can't do anything more. But perhaps you feel chagrined at being associated with me in the present difficulty. You needn't expostulate,—I can quite understand it."

The lawyer turned a brick red. It was quite true. He had begun to look on this calamity as one for which he and Clark were both partly responsible.

"If you worry—and it's quite absurd that you should—your value automatically decreases. Has it occurred to you that, from now on, the importance of your position is vastly increased? We shall look to you more than ever. I dare not worry—there's too much to be done. You were our advisor, now you are our protector against unfair attack—and there'll be lots of it. What's more, Bowers, you are the only one who is sure of his money."

Bowers nodded. He began to feel more comfortable.

"What's going on in St. Marys?"

"Nothing much yet—they don't know what to get ready for. Filmer and the rest are sending out accounts they hope to collect, a good deal of property is on offer without any takers, but, at the bottom, I don't think the town is rattled. There's a sort of feeling that the works are too big to be wiped out."

Clark smiled gravely. He was aware that to the townsfolk the works had become part of the landscape, and, imaginatively, not much more. But just as they could not contemplate the obliteration of part of the landscape, so it was difficult to conceive permanent idleness at the works. It was a case of the immobility of the non-speculative mind, which is lethargic in hours of exaltation but comfortably steadfast in times of stress.

"Listen," he said earnestly. "There's an element in Ironville which may soon have to be controlled by force; but as to St. Marys what you've got to do is to spread the feeling that there's nothing like confidence to maintain business. Can't you see that if your office were knee deep in writs it doesn't affect you? You've got to remain the efficient, smoothly working, impersonal machine. So have I—and so has every one who takes the responsibility for the actions of those of lesser intelligence. Leaving out first and second causes—we're all doing just what we're meant to do, and it doesn't matter who or what meant it. Wimperley and the others will be up here soon, and regard me as a crazy idealist who inveigled them into building a house of cards. The heads of departments—at least some of them—will look at me and wonder how it was that I gave them any confidence in the future. Hundreds of creditors will consider me personally responsible because they have to wait for their money, and about two thousand Poles and Hungarians will want to kill me to gratify their sense of personal injury. On top of that, ninety-nine men out of a hundred will forget all about my seven years' work, and that I started with nothing, and will point to the Consolidated as an excellent example of misdirected energy. For a little while little men will smile with commiseration and say 'He did the best he could,' but," and here Clark's voice deepened, "only for a little while. Now, friend Bowers, where do I stand with you?"

Bowers got up and paced the terrace irresolutely, glancing now and then at the motionless, gray clad figure in the wicker chair. He was suddenly and profoundly moved. In the past he had seen but one side of Clark, and this sudden depth of feeling was startling. He knew that if he still took his chief as the crowd took him, Clark would not apparently be affected in any degree, but would only classify and finally put him away with his own kind.

"Don't think for a moment I'm making any appeal," went on the steady voice. "It really doesn't matter whether you believe in me or not. There's just one thing supremely important at the present time, which is my belief in myself. That's my anchorage—it always has been and will be. I don't consider that we owe each other anything, but just the same I would like to know where you place me."

Bowers had a swift vision of what he was seven years ago, and set it against what he was now. Then, with full consciousness of the complete confidence that was placed in him by Clark, he turned and held out his hand.

"I place you," he said a little jerkily, "just where you want to be placed."

Clark merely touched the extended fingers, but his face brightened and a smile crept into his eyes.

"I thought you did, but—" he added quizzically, "I had to work to find it out, didn't I?"

Bowers nodded. He felt like a field that had been plowed so deep that it would yield better than ever before. He reflected, too, that the experience gained in years of success should serve well in times of adversity.

"What's on the program?" he asked.

"The men will begin to drift in from the mines and lumber camps. Then it's a matter of sitting tight till they're paid off."

Bowers thrust out his lips. He had seen men come in from the woods with their pockets full of money, and that was bad enough, but without money—!

"I've had a talk with Manson who seems good for it, and the works will be under heavy guard. That's all we can do in the meantime. I'm going to Philadelphia as soon as possible."

"But not at once?"

Clark smiled. "No, not at once."



XXII.—THE MASTER MIND AT WORK

Bowers went thoughtfully home and; next morning, flung himself into his work with renewed courage. He had need of it—they all had need of it. There were now thousands who waited for their pay, and daily these ranks were swelled by others who drifted in from the woods. Hundreds of merchants began to refuse credit, though Filmer valiantly used all his resources. St. Marys was, in truth, stupefied, and when the first shock began to smooth itself out, the reality of the thing became grimly apparent, and then arose the first rumor of trouble in Ironville, that straggling settlement of shacks where dwelt the bone and muscle of the works.

To the Swede and Polander there was no suggestion of achievement in the vast buildings in which they labored. It was only the place where they earned their living. They worked amongst giant mechanisms beside which they were puny, but theirs was a life of force and strength which took from them the fear of anything that was merely human. Thus surprise changed to resentment, and resentment began to resolve itself into a slow and consuming anger. The works were dead, but in the main office the accounting staff was bending desperately over statements imperatively demanded by Philadelphia. The black browed Hungarians saw the lights at night, and felt that they were being played with by those more powerful than themselves. If a furnace man was discharged, why keep on these scribblers?

Outside St. Marys the news ran apace. Toronto papers dwelt on it, and the Board of Trade read it with regret mingled with thankfulness that Clark had embarked on no financial campaigns in their own city. Thorpe went carefully over the Philadelphia acceptances in his vault, and wondered what they were worth. To St. Marys set out a stream of representatives of various creditor companies, that filled the local hotels and journeyed out to the works and came back unsatisfied. Philadelphia dispatches were devoured, and the word "reorganization" was one to charm with. One by one, the Company's steamers slid up to the long docks, made fast and drew their fires, till it seemed that the works, like a great octopus, was withdrawing every arm and filament it ever had radiated, and was coiling them endlessly at its cold and clammy side. Yet, for all of this, it did not seem possible that the whole structure was tumbling, the structure on which so many years of labor—so much genius and enthusiasm—so many millions—had been lavished, until one afternoon a drunken Swede threw a stone into a butcher's window in Ironville and, putting forth a horny hand, seized a side of bacon and set forth, reeling, down the street. Two hours later the startled chief accountant, from a window in his office, saw a swarm of a thousand men surge through the big gates of the works and, trampling the guard, flow irregularly forward.

The mob spilt on, a river of big strong men, unaware of its own strength. They were not bent on willful destruction, but the whole mass was animated by an inchoate desire to find out something for itself. At the door of the rail mill stood the superintendent and his firemen, with drawn revolvers. The rioters liked these men because they worked with and understood them. They were not associated with the present trouble. So on to the administration building, where the office staff looked out, petrified with fear. Here, the mob decided, was another breed, so there commenced a hammering on the big oaken door and stones showered through the windows.

At this, Hobbs, stricken with mortal terror, and oblivious of the girls who gathered around him, lost his head. There was no escape downstairs, but opposite his desk was a grated iron window that led on to an adjoining roof. Noting it desperately, he heaved up his soft body and made a plunge for safety. But such was his bulk that, though head, arms and shoulders went through, he stuck there, anchored in an iron grip.

"Help!" he called chokingly, "Help!"

The mob looked up and stared, when from the rear ranks came a bull-like roar of laughter. Then another burst out and another, till from the ground spouted a fountain of jeers, hoots and ridicule that reached the fat man as he hung suspended, with purple face and gesticulating arms.

Clark, in his office, waiting coolly for what might come, caught the change in the note of riot and, stepping into the next room, saw the legs of his comptroller brandished in the air. The rest of him was invisible, and still in the square outside rocked the booming shouts of Slavic and Scandinavian mirth. A moment later Hobbs was dragged back, with torn clothing, swollen neck and scratched body. Clark glanced at him contemptuously and went out. Then the doors opened, and he was on the front steps.

The mob saw him and held its breath. Few of them had ever been so near him before. He stood with a quiet smile on his face and a light in his keen eyes, and, in the momentary hush, began to speak. There was no fear in voice or attitude. The wind, blowing from the rapids, brought the echo of their clamor to the upper windows so that the accounting staff heard not a word, but the mob heard, and presently the big Pole laughed, just as he had laughed at Hobbs' distorted face suspended above him. It was contagious, and Clark, playing upon the mood of the moment, drove home his point.

The money was coming, and he himself would stay there till it came. In the meantime, the money would be slower to arrive if there was trouble, and that was all he had to say.

There followed a little hesitation, then an indefinite movement, and the crowd began to shuffle toward the shattered gates. As it dwindled Clark glanced over his shoulder and saw a man within twenty feet, both hands thrust eloquently into his bulging coat pockets.

"Thanks very much, Belding, I'm glad it wasn't necessary," he said crisply, and vanished inside the big doors.

The engineer knew better than to follow, but was bitterly disappointed. He had hoped for some word of comfort, but to not a single employee had Clark said anything of explanation. It was not his habit, and he looked to the intelligence of each man to carry him through. And this was typical of his invariable attitude toward those with whom he came in contact. He gauged them by the degree to which they contributed to the work on hand, and just now the only work on hand was that which none but himself could carry out. In personalities Clark was not interested, but identified them only by some very definite achievement he was able to hang round their necks like a label.

Belding saw to it that his own offices were guarded and walked to the head of the rapids. He felt numbed. If Clark had conceived the works, he himself had built them, and, as they grew under his hand, he felt that something of his own existence went forth with every stroke of a drill, and that a fragment of his brain lay in every course of masonry. Like all true engineers, he delighted in the physical expression of his ability, and here had been such an opportunity as few engineers ever realized. He felt not so much dejected as dumbfounded that so much skill and labor could be brought to a full stop just as it reached its permanent stride. In his eyes the figure of Clark had long achieved titanic proportions. Innumerable things had been demonstrated to be possible, and to be chief engineer of such an enterprise had been, thought Belding, all that any man could ask. It was true that in the fatigue of work he had often imagined that Clark was going too fast, but always the thing had been done. Now it seemed the ironical jest of the gods that a shade too much carbon in a steel rail should wreck the whole endeavor.

And there was Elsie. He had never been able to give her up. Against the glamour of his chief's personality he had nothing to put forward except a whole souled worship, and Elsie, it appeared, preferred the invitation of the older man's romantic career. Subconsciously, Belding decided that the thing was wrong and against nature, for he was marked by a certain simple belief in the general fairness of life. He clung to the doctrine of compensation, and held himself trustingly open to whatever good influences might reach him. Elsie was the highest influence of all. In Clark he had found a stimulus that nerved his brain to great accomplishments. But Elsie and Clark had together wounded his very spirit.

Clark, in the quiet of his private office, was thinking not of Belding or Elsie, but of the mob that had trailed so uncertainly out of the big gates. He had played for time and he had won—but that was all. Sooner or later, driven by the impossibility of living without pay, the mob would return, and in a less placable mood. He turned to the telephone. "I want Mr. Filmer." In a moment he was speaking to the mayor.

"What happened up here to-day is but a taste of what's coming. You'd better get out the militia, if Manson can't handle it. Bowers tells me I can do very little from a point of law, and we look to you for protection."

"The militia won't help you much." Filmer's voice was a little shaky. His son was in the militia, but he himself had never taken that body very seriously. It was a matter of uniform, a band and a field day or two in the year—that was all.

"Well, Bowers tells me that if we kill any one in protecting the place we'll have a nasty time of it, so it's up to you. If the local militia are no good, get some up from Toronto. I warn you they'll be needed. Ask Belding if you like, he saw it all."

He leaned back and began a cold blooded survey of the situation. He was not in any way desperate, but he turned involuntarily to the resources of his own brain for some solution. It was certain that no immediate help could be expected from Philadelphia. He was left quite officially and deliberately to stem the tide as best he could, and, in spite of the gravity of the moment, smiled at the thought that his directors leaned on him in their extremity. They did not know what to do, therefore he must know. Then suddenly his mind reverted to Semple, and he spent the next few moments in profound thought. "Get hold of Mr. Semple," he said to his secretary, "and bring him here."

In half an hour Semple appeared, flustered and a little pale. A visit to the works just now filled him with apprehension. It seemed like smoking in a magazine.

"What's the matter?" said Clark, smiling at his agitation.

Semple drew a long breath and, noting the thickness of the office walls, felt a little safer.

"That's what I was going to ask you."

"Only a slight difficulty that you will help to put right."

Semple stared with astonishment. The bottom had apparently fallen out of the works, but Clark was as cool as ever.

"Help?" he demanded, puzzled. Clark evidently did not stand to lose much in the smash. "You're holding these fellows, aren't you?"

"Yes, for the immediate present, but we'll have to do more. That's where you come in."

The member for Algoma was at sea, and said so.

"You represent the Government here," went on Clark, "and we've spent seventeen million dollars in these works. Do you see the conclusion?"

"No, I don't."

"Your government must help us over the stile. Just so long as those men remain unpaid, life won't be very safe in St. Marys."

Semple looked round apprehensively. "But my government doesn't live here. What have I got to do with it?"

"I don't know, but, by virtue of pressure you will exert, the Government must help. What's the Liberal majority in Ontario?"

"One. I'm it."

"Then you keep the Premier in power, and he's hanging on to power like grim death."

"But I don't see—"

"It's simple enough. If you settle this affair to the satisfaction of local people, you'll secure Algoma to the Liberal party, so long as that party wants it."

"By God!" said Semple, startled.

Clark apparently did not hear him. "There's another thing—to set those works in motion again will be the biggest advertisement any government in Canada ever had. It will swing the labor vote—it will secure the merchants' support." He paused, then leant forward and poured into Semple the full pressure—the accumulated effort of mind and spirit. "Ample security is available. I will make repayment the first obligation of the Company—it will forestall bonds and everything else. What I want, and what you will find for me, is only a fraction of the sum that has been put straight into this Province; and it's not much more than we have already paid in mineral and lumber dues and taxes."

"How much?" said Semple in a fascinated whisper.

"Two million dollars."

"But—"

"There aren't any buts."

"Do you owe that in wages?" Semple was aghast.

"Wages are only a small part of what must be paid at once."

"Where does Philadelphia come in?"

"Philadelphia," smiled Clark, "has left the entire matter to me in the meantime. They are making arrangements which may not be consummated for some months. We can thank a prominent American speculator for most of this. But the Province of Ontario owes us something. Doesn't it occur to you," he added slowly, "how your personal reputation will be affected?"

Semple blinked several times and very rapidly. "I'll wire at once," he said, with a long breath.

"You'll do nothing of the kind. You'll go down yourself this afternoon. You know your man, and I know him; and he knows the works. He's been here several times. Put the matter straight,—tell him that we are dealing with forces that can only be met in one way. It's either this, or destruction and bloodshed. I've asked Filmer to wire for troops. Mr. Semple, what you are about to make is a new move on the chessboard. Your man is shrewd enough to see it, and it's the new moves that win. This is not so much politics as economics—tell him that. I'd go with you—but I must not leave St. Marys just now. Wire me as soon as possible—you've just time to catch your train."

The color climbed into Semple's cheeks, and he went quickly out with his head up. Clark glanced after him and his lips twisted into a smile.

"I give him forty-eight hours. If it doesn't come by that—we'll ring down the curtain," he said to himself thoughtfully.

He went out and walked, for hours, through the deserted buildings. They were full of hollow mockery. Watchmen, posted by Belding at strategic points, glanced after him curiously. He seemed lonely and diminutive in this mechanical wilderness of his own creation. They wondered how a man felt in such a position as his at a time like this. He dared not go to the rapids, lest he read in their uproar some new and menacing note. He thought lingeringly of Elsie. She seemed far from this crisis, and at the same time curiously a part of it. Never did he feel more certain of the girl's affection than now, and it came to him what a refuge a woman's breast might be for a man in such case as himself. In the moment his forceful brain protested at the thought of refuge.

He tramped on with a slow wonder at the magnitude of his own activities. Here and there, individual buildings stimulated poignant memories of the occasion that brought them forth. The sulphur plant assumed an aspect of derision. Beneath the huge dimensions of the head-race he seemed to discern the obliterated canal over which St. Marys came to grief. Was he himself to be brought down by its titanic successor? He stared up the lake, comparing himself with the voyageur who had once floated out of this wide immensity to trade at St. Marys. He, too, had been trading at St. Marys. "Big magic!" old Shingwauk had said, when his dark eyes beheld the works. Was it, after all, barely possible they were nothing but magic?



XXIII.—CONCERNING THE RIOT

Next morning came a rap at his office door and Baudette entered, treading very lightly. Clark looked up and shook his head.

"I haven't got any money yet."

"I don't want any money."

The gray eyes softened a little. "You're the only man I've met who doesn't. What is it?"

Baudette pointed out of the window.

Clark got up and glanced at the open space in front of the administration building. There lounged some fifty men, the pick of Baudette's crew, big and broad shouldered, in light colored woollen jackets, shoepacks and blazing shirts. Each toyed with an ax handle that swung lightly between strong, brown fingers. They were a loose-jointed lot, active as cats, and moved with the superlative ease of the skilled woodsman. Clark's jaw thrust out and he glanced grimly at his visitor.

"If they think they can get it that way, they're mistaken."

"You don't understand," came the even voice. "These are my friends, and yours. St. Marys is full of people who are after you. They are hungry for money, and they're coming for it. This crowd reckons their money is all right and will help you talk back."

Clark drew a long breath and caught the clear blue of Baudette's eyes. Then he nodded and began to smile.

"Thank you, friend," he said with a catch in his breath. "I might have known it."

Hours dragged by. That night there was looting in Ironville, and the local grocers suffered a sudden depletion of stock. Morning broke, gray and threatening, while through shack and cabin an ugly temper spread steadily. Clark perceived that the real thing was coming now. Once or twice he thought of Semple, who must already be closeted with the Premier.

Just before midday a howling mob gathered swiftly outside the big gates, when instantly Baudette and his fifty axemen ran up and joined the guards. The crowd increased, and there went out an imperative summons to Manson who, with his thirty police, ranged himself half a mile away on the road to St. Marys. But for this the town was utterly unprotected. Came the pad pad of flying feet, and Fisette dashed up, swinging a prospecting pick. He grinned at the big constable.

"By Gar!" he panted, "I guess we catch hell now."

Followed a little pause, broken only by the deep threatening note of the crowd. Then Belding felt a touch on his shoulder.

"Open the gates," said Clark evenly, "I want to speak to them."

The engineer stared at the set face. His chief's eyes were like polished steel, and his jaw thrust out. There was no fear here.

"Stay inside, sir. They'll kill you."

The front rank caught sight of the erect figure. Then silence fell over them and spread slowly through the dark-browed multitude, Clark raised an imperative finger. The gates opened a fraction, and in front of them stood the man in whom the rioters perceived the head of their present world.

"I want to tell you that your money is coming, and that I stay here till you are paid," rang the clear voice.

For an instant there came no answer, but presently from the rear ranks rose again a bull-like roar.

"You tell us that last week."

Followed a murmur that ran through the packed mass of broad shoulders.

"I tell you again—and it's true!"

For reply, a short iron bolt came hurtling through the air. It took Clark on the cheek. He seemed not to feel it, but stood undaunted, while a trickle of blood crept down his smooth face. The sight of it seemed to rouse some latent fury in the mob, and a deep growl sounded ominously. He felt himself jerked suddenly back, and Belding and Baudette jumped in front of him. The woodsman balanced a great shining axe, and the engineer's automatic gleamed dully.

"Get inside, sir, quick!"

For the first time in his life, Clark felt himself passed from hand to hand, and landed, fuming, on the other side of the big gates. The voice of the mob lifted to an infuriated howl. Simultaneously the rear ranks pressed forward.

Fighting began the next instant. Belding's revolver barked viciously, while he shot low at legs and feet. Three men went down to be engulfed in the oncoming tide. Baudette was standing firm, his cold blue eyes alight with the fire of battle. His broad axe was cutting swift circles around him, while he dodged a shower of missiles. To right and left of him fifty axe handles rose and fell like flails, and behind them was all the skill and sinew of those who dwell amongst big timber. Then a jagged fragment of iron casting took Baudette on the knee, and he went down.

The battle grew, while the faithful ranks thinned visibly. Just through the big gates lay the battlemented works, and toward them pressed the mob, now drunk with the hunger to destroy. At the moment when it seemed that the living barrier must collapse, the rioters wheeled to meet a new attack. With the sound of fighting, Manson pushed on and now struck hard. His thirty constables set their batons going, and there came the heavy crack of loaded wood on thick skulls. Fisette, his eyes gleaming, was tapping like a deadly woodpecker with his pick, and the impetus of this onslaught drove a formidable wedge into the surging mass. Manson's great voice bellowed unspeakable things in the lust of combat, his dark visage distorted, his mighty body gathered into a great, human battering ram.

Presently the constable too went down with a shattered arm, and the line of police shortened and curved. Fisette found himself throttled by a muscular arm which shot round his neck, and two minutes later they were surrounded and fighting for their lives.

The battle surged and palpitated. What remained of Baudette's axemen were behind the big gates, where Belding had dragged the prostrate foreman. Clark stood in absolute calmness, though he knew that presently this barrier would be battered down.

Belding drew a long breath and shot a fascinated glance at his chief. It flashed into his mind that Clark was getting punishment now, not only in the eyes of the world, but also in the eyes of the man from whom he had taken that which was dearest and best. But his leader's gaze was as clear as ever.

"It can't last much longer, sir," he shouted through the uproar. His automatic was empty, and he could only watch the front rank of rioters pick up a great baulk of timber and balance it opposite the gates. Then a sudden chill struck to his very soul. What would happen in St. Marys?

Clark, staring at him, just as suddenly perceived what was in his mind.

"Take my launch," he called into his ear. "You can land at the house. Hurry! Don't mind about me."

Belding hung for a moment in frantic uncertainty, and shook his head. He was next in command here, but a short mile away was his heart's desire, defenseless, save for what resistance could be hastily organized in the town. It was questionable what that was worth, and his whole soul commanded him to go to her. For an instant he felt sick, then over him flooded the cold conviction that, even though he saved Clark for Elsie, he must stay and see this thing through.

Suddenly from far down the road came a sharp rattle, that pierced the uproar and brought a grim, inflexible message. Clark heard it, and over his face stole an expression of relief. The mob heard it, and through their surging ranks ran that which sobered and cooled their fury. Manson, prostrate and bloody, heard it, and Fisette, and all the others who had fought, it seemed, their last fight. The rioters began to dissipate like blown leaves in autumn, and a rippling line of infantry in open formation moved rhythmically up the road from St. Marys.

Clark drew a long breath and looked curiously at his engineer.

"You saved my life, Belding." He hesitated a moment, and added thoughtfully, "Now, why should you want to do that?"

Belding stared and a lump rose in his throat. He had lost and yet he had won,—been defeated and yet had risen to something bigger than he had ever achieved before. He could face the future now, even though it were written that he should face it alone. He tried to speak, then turned on his heel and walked towards the dock, where Clark's fast launch lay glinting in the sun.

The gray eyes followed him in profound contemplation. Presently Clark smiled, it seemed a little sadly, and advanced to the officer commanding the troops. Baudette was sitting up. Manson, his face gray with pain, was nursing a dangling arm, and round them the derelicts of battle were strewn grotesquely. But it was Fisette who spoke first.

"By Gar!" he said with flashing teeth, "she's one big fight, eh!"

Silence spread again over the works. An armed picket was left at the big gates, while the rest of the troops patrolled suddenly deserted streets in Ironville. In the accounting office there began again the clicking of typewriters, and Clark, at his desk, dictated a dispatch to Philadelphia. This done, he fell into a mood of strange abstraction. The car of destiny was traveling fast.

Just then the telephone rang, and he took up the receiver automatically. As in a dream Elsie's voice came in, tremulous but very clear. He smiled wearily as he listened.

"Thank you very much," he said in answer. "There is really no serious damage done, except to a few foolish heads; and," he added, "please thank Mr. Belding again for me,—yes, he'll understand."

A hush fell in the office again, and he felt inexpressibly alone. He was not in any sense hopeless, being assured that in the vast machine of his own creation were inherent qualities of life that could never be extinguished. He was strong, since for himself he desired nothing. In this hour of uncertainty his imagination traveled far, but again and again it was captured by the remembrance of his days with the bishop. This had nothing to do with works, and yet in a way they were intimately connected. The bishop had demonstrated the operation of high and subtle forces to which he himself had not given much thought. The bishop had saved his life, just as Belding had saved it, and he still seemed to feel the working of big muscles under his twitching palms. There flashed back what the prelate had said about being prepared for the worst, which after all was sometimes the best, and, with half closed eyes, he wondered whether this was the occasion. There sounded a knock at the door, and the bishop himself came in.

Clark, getting up hastily, advanced to meet him. There were only three people in the world he would have cared to see at that moment, and here was one of them.

"Come in and sit down, sir. This is very good of you."

"It took me two hours to get here," said the big man, breathing a little hard. "It's rather difficult traveling to-day."

Clark stared at him. He had always thought of the bishop as an exemplar of peace, but he had arrived almost on the tail of the riot.

"I only reached town a short time ago," the visitor was smiling cheerfully, "and heard about the trouble. Now that I'm safely here, I'll only stay a minute."

Clark shook his head. "You are very welcome, sir."

The bishop nodded contentedly. "I just wanted to express my sympathy with your present anxiety, and my belief that everything will come all right."

"You do believe that?"

"Unquestionably. Such efforts as yours are not foredoomed. I see you, too, are of my opinion."

"I have to be," said Clark reflectively.

"I'm not at all surprised, since you can turn to the physical evidence of your own efforts to support you. It gives you an advantage over myself."

"Does it?"

The visitor pointed to the mass of buildings close at hand. "You have all that, and there is no doubt that inanimate things possess a peculiar influence, either strengthening or otherwise. But still I can quite imagine what it means to you to sit here and listen to silence with so many reminders about you. It is one of the things that the servants of humanity must occasionally face."

"Servants?" said Clark curiously.

"Is not a leader also a servant. Has he anything left for himself, and is it not just a different term for the same thing?"

The other man experienced a strange sensation that he had discovered this a long time ago. The bishop had also discovered it, but had not forgotten.

"I have it in my mind that there is another reason why you should not be depressed," went on the prelate assuringly. "You have always demanded too much of yourself; and while you are many kinds of a man you cannot be all kinds."

This was also true. "Go on, sir."

"I have developed no commercial ability, but admit a strong commercial interest, and sometimes think I could have been a good business man myself. I roughly divide them into two classes,—one very large and the other very small."

"Successful and unsuccessful, I assume?"

The bishop's face was very thoughtful. "That depends on what you mean by 'success.' Wealth, for instance, does not necessarily stand for success. You, if I may say so, are a practical idealist, for you have faith in your dream. You have achieved a vision revealed to few men's eyes and—"

A gentle knock at the door cut him short. The secretary came in with a telegram, and something in the face of the latter made Clark's heart leap within him. A few seconds later he placed the yellow slip in the bishop's hands, and gazed at him with twinkling eyes.

Ontario government advances two million on offered security and has notified your bank.

SEMPLE.

The bishop read it over slowly. "How can I congratulate you? What splendid news!"

"You have congratulated me."

"Eh! When?"

"You said I had faith in my dream. Now I beg of you not to move, but just see how things work."

In the course of the next ten minutes, the prelate saw Clark in swift action. Automatically the clear brain marshaled all the pressing duties of the moment and discharged them in quick succession. Messages to Filmer, to the military authorities, to various impatient creditors, were dispatched, for in this masterful hand was gathered every filament through which a vitalizing energy would again permeate the works. The flexible intellect of the man worked with a precision that was impressive. Presently the bishop rose to go. He stood, an imposing figure, animated with benign understanding and good will.

"Good-by, till we meet again. I rejoice with you in what has just taken place, but you are a prophet and all prophets are on a precarious pedestal. Had you been in the pursuit of wealth I could not have talked as I have to-day."

Clark did not answer, and in the hush the voice of the rapids lifted a melodious chorus.

"But after all does it matter how deep the water through which any man passes if the community at large benefits?"

"I don't know what they would say to that in Philadelphia."

"Possibly, but in an economic sense what has happened is that some of the wealth of Philadelphia has been transferred here. This will be a few weeks' sensation—and then will follow a fresh one. That is of the nature of things. But long after you and I have moved on, the forests and mines of this district will be adding to the strength of the country. Those men who have backed you have contributed with you and made it possible. Mr. Clark, I have no fear for the future of the works or of yourself."

Clark's lips curved into a rare smile. "Neither have I, sir."

His visitor departed, and he got on to the Philadelphia wire with the curt information that two million dollars had been secured from the Ontario government, and asked permission to continue work. Simultaneously the news spread like a forest fire. The militia found there was nothing to contend with. Merchants surveyed their looted stores and swore vengeance, but in a modern Arcadia one cannot arrest two thousand foreigners. There were blocks of buildings with fronts smashed in; dangling knots of wires; prostrate electric light poles; scattered stones and bolts and shivered fences, but the rioters, to a man, were back, dandling their babies and waiting for the morrow. It was as though a hurricane had blown fiercely through the town, and then died over the encircling hills. And in the bank office Brewster was thoughtfully reading two telegrams from Thorpe, one commending his attitude for the past few weeks, the other authorizing him to credit the Consolidated account with two million dollars.

A few days later Wimperley and Birch arrived. It was their answer to Clark's suggestion that work be continued without delay and, as usual, he quite correctly interpreted the manner of their reply. His energy had saved the situation which it had created, but, in spite of this, there was a new spirit in the financial circles of Philadelphia. He was dubbed a dangerous man. He was, they considered, too swift as well as too hypnotic. To continue to identify themselves with his undertakings was deliberately boarding a runaway train. Added to this, the interlinking of companies which had been presumed to be a factor of strength was now shown as an element of weakness. When one lost money, all lost it.

When Wimperley, unfolding his mind steadily and without interruption, told Clark that the old regime was at an end, the latter, at first, was not much impressed. But gradually the case became clearer.

"I don't say we don't trust you," he said, "but candidly, we're afraid of you. Just two things are needed to secure the operation of the works,—new money and new management; and it's possible the new crowd won't want you. Philadelphia has been sucked dry so far as concerns us."

"Any suggestions?" put in Clark quietly.

"Not yet. We're in correspondence with London people, and they'll probably come out. When they do," continued Wimperley, eying the other man meaningly, "we'll turn them over to you."

"Is that it?" The voice had a profundity of meaning.

Wimperley nodded. "I thought you'd understand. You got us in, and now you've got to pull us out."

"And pull myself out too," said Clark dryly. "Thanks."

"Would you prefer that the works stay idle with you or get busy without you?" interjected Birch pointedly.

"When it comes to that—if it does—I'll let you know. In the meantime—?"

"Don't turn a wheel except for town utilities, and now we'd like to see Bowers. You probably don't realize what we've been through in Philadelphia. Consolidated isn't what you'd call gilt edged just now, and the corners are knocked off our reputation as business men. I just mention this in case you feel aggrieved."

Clark grinned suddenly. "I'm not worrying either about my stock or my business reputation. Your difficulty is that you don't see why any one else should pull through where we didn't."

Wimperley nodded. "There's something in that. What we've got now is the job of making Consolidated stock worth something—by earnings. It means cutting out the dead wood—our own dead wood, and I don't fancy the contract. It hurts to chop down the tree you helped to plant—but it's the only way out of it. There will probably be months before this machine will start up again, and move toward permanent success."

A day or two afterwards the two directors went back to Philadelphia, where they reported to Stoughton and Riggs that the screws were on tight. Save only the pumps and generators, not a wheel turned in the Consolidated. Birch's conclusion was that millions more were needed. Consolidated stock settled down to a nominal value that fluctuated with conflicting reports of new capital having been found, but the whole affair was flat—indescribably flat. And meantime Birch—with the unprofitable burden on his shoulders—made pilgrimages to test the financial pulse, and for months returned empty handed.

In St. Marys it seemed that Arcadia might be reborn,—not the old time Arcadia with its sleepy village atmosphere, but a modern one in which folk made up their minds to live on the profits of past years. The car service was reduced, and half the street lamps removed. There were empty houses in the new streets, and the property which once passed through Manson's hands could have been re-bought at the original price. Filmer and the rest reduced their stock, while the whole overbuilt, overgrown town settled down to wait till, after a weary interval, Clark got off the train with two strangers and drove up to the big house on the hill. In half an hour Bowers, who was expecting them, completed the quartet.

It was an unusual group that gathered that night in the dining room. Ardswell and Weatherby had spent a week in Philadelphia before Wimperley telegraphed Clark to come down. The story was plain enough. The two Englishmen had come from London to hear it,—and it was told well. But Wimperley and Birch shared the belief that Clark, in the meantime, should be kept in the background, lest his hypnosis should envelop them as of old. They held him, as it were, a reserve store of influence to be used at the proper time, and it was not till the financial aspect of the affair was thoroughly digested that he was called in to play his appointed part.

Ardswell and Weatherby wanted to see whether the machine could be made to run commercially. That it was not so running was obviously the fault of those in charge, and Clark at once determined not to attempt to make former mistakes less glaring. The more obvious they were allowed to remain, the more easy their rectification. He was too much in love with the works to dodge this sacrifice, and yet could not conceive their continuing without him.

Assuming this onerous duty, he was perfectly aware that he dealt with minds of a new complexion. Instead of responsive Americans, he confronted two cool-blooded Britishers, to whom any show of spontaneity was out of place. They were on guard, and Clark knew it, and of all his achievements none stands out more prominently than his attitude on the three days that followed. He became a Britisher himself. He assumed, quite correctly, that nothing would be accepted without proof.

Tramping about the works, they were accompanied by the superintendents of the various departments, to whom he referred the pointed questions that came so frequently in high-pitched, well modulated English voices. What Clark said himself was very curt and to the point. The works, he decided, could talk for themselves. Coming last to the pulp mill, Ardswell ran an admiring eye down the long rank of machinery, ranged like sleeping giants in a dwindling perspective.

"I say," he remarked involuntarily, "I'd like to see the thing turn over. Could it be arranged?—at our expense of course," he added.

Clark nodded to the superintendent, who was close behind, and presently the day watchmen were twisting at the turbine gate wheels. A soft tremor ran through the building, growing steadily to a deep, hoarse rumble as the massive grindstones revolved faster. The floor vibrated in a quick rhythm, and in a few seconds came the full drone of work—that profound and elemental note of nature when she toils at the behest of man.

The faintest flicker of light stirred in the blue English eyes. Ardswell had been walking from turbine to turbine. "Ripping!" he said. "You might shut down now."

The titans dropped one by one into slumber. When the last vibration was stilled, he looked up with a new respect. "We might go ahead if you don't mind."

"Take a quarter of an hour first, and follow me."

They struck southward, and the Englishmen heard the boom of the rapids deepen till they came to the edge of the river at Clark's observation point. There was a strong easterly wind, and it caught at the snowy crests of the bigger waves, spinning them out like silver manes of leaping horses. These flashed in the sunlight, till, over the central ridge of water, the air was full of a fine, misty spray that hung palpitating and luminous. Here was a torrential life—born of the endless and icy leagues of Lake Superior.

The two strangers stared fascinated, and as Clark watched them he perceived that once more the ageless voice of the rapids was speaking to human ears, just as it had spoken to his own so many times—and years before. He waited patiently, while the river lifted its elemental message, and saw the color rise in English cheeks and the cold, blue English eyes begin to sparkle again. What were the drab records of Birch's ledgers, or even the monumental pile of nearby buildings, compared to this impetuous slogan? He stood silently, plunged in the psychology of the moment.

"How much power—total I mean?" said Ardswell presently, pointing to the ripping flood.

"Two hundred and forty thousand horsepower, at a minimum."

"By George!"

Silence fell again, till Weatherby, shaking the spray from his rough tweed coat, got up a little stiffly.

"I begin to understand a little better now," he said slowly with an eloquent glance.

The car was waiting for them by the little lock—and here at the block house the visitors displayed marked animation, Clark told them the story very simply as they rolled off up the hill for lunch.

"There's one man, the chief engineer, Belding—you met him at the head gates—that I would like to be remembered should we do business," he concluded very thoughtfully. "Belding was my first employee. I picked him up in St. Marys and he has stuck to it nobly. I probably gave him far too much to do, but he never squealed; and there are other reasons."

Weatherby looked up. "That's the big, fair haired chap we saw go off in the canoe?"

"Yes."

"Well," put in Ardswell tersely, "it will probably all depend on yourself."



XXIV.—DESTINY

Up in the big bay that lies next the head of the rapids, Belding was drifting aimlessly. He was still obsessed with a sense of the hideous uselessness of effort, and wanted to be alone. At one time Elsie used to be here in the bow of the canoe, but now it seemed that Elsie had little thought for him. And yet he could have sworn that, two years ago, she loved him.

He began to paddle, with a sharp and growing resentment, and found a deep satisfaction in the thrust of his broad blade. Soon he was nearly half way across the river, and a mile down stream lifted the fabric of the great bridge. Slacking speed, he caught the pull of the current, and with it came a reckless impulse. No man had shot the middle of the rapids and escaped with his life. It was true that the Indians maneuvered their long canoes down close to the opposite shore with venturous tourists, but it was only a film of water that wound, bubbling, near the land. With the deep-throated rumble only half a mile away, Belding felt his pulse falter for a second, then pound viciously on. And in that second, with the bravado of early manhood, he threw discretion overboard, and set the slim bow of his Peterboro' for the middle span. Twenty seconds, later he knew that he was about to run the rapids—whether he would or not.