Jeffard brought himself up with a savage turn. Who was he that he should be privileged as those who are slain in any honorable cause?
"Lansdale is no better, then?"
"I don't know. Sometimes he thinks he is. But I guess it's written in the book; and I'm sorry—for his sake and hers. There comes your automobile."
A big engine was clanking up through the yard, but Jeffard did not turn to look at it. He was wringing Bartrow's hand, and trying vainly to think of some message to send to the woman he loved. And at the end of it, it went unsaid. One of the clerks was waiting with the train-order when the engine steamed up; and Jeffard was fain to clamber to his place in the cab, full to the lips with tender embassies, which would by no means array themselves in words.
Bartrow waited till he could fling his God-speed up to the cab window. It took the form of a parting injunction, and neither of them suspected how much it would involve.
"If you need backing in Aspen, look up Mark Denby. He's a good friend of mine; an all-around business man, and a guardian angel to fellows with holes in the ground and no ready money. Hunt him up. I'll wire your introduction and have it there ahead of you. Off you go—good luck to you!"
And at the word the big engine lifted its voice with a shout and a bell-clang, and shook itself free for the race.