With a creak and a bump the train started, and the Colonel ran it slowly up until the locomotive stood on the tracks exactly where Buck Ogilvy had been cutting in his crossing; whereupon the Colonel locked the brakes, opened his exhaust, and blew the boiler down. And when the last ounce of steam had escaped, he descended and smilingly accosted Bryce Cardigan.
“That engine being my property,” he announced, “I'll take the short end of any bet you care to make, young man, that it will sit on those tracks until your temporary franchise expires. I'd give a good deal to see anybody not in my employ attempt to get up steam in that boiler until I give the word. Cut in your jump-crossing now, if you can, you whelp, and be damned to you. I've got you blocked!”
“I rather imagine this nice gentleman has it on us, old dear,” chirped Buck Ogilvy plaintively. “Well! We did our damndest, which angels can't do no more. Let us gather up our tools and go home, my son, for something tells me that if I hang around here I'll bust one of two things—this sleek scoundrel's gray head or one of my bellicose veins! Hello! Whom have we here?”
Bryce turned and found himself facing Shirley Sumner. Her tender lip was quivering, and the tears shone in her eyes like stars. He stared at her in silence.
“My friend,” she murmured tremulously, “didn't I tell you I would not permit you to build the N.C.O.?”
He bowed his head in rage and shame at his defeat. Buck Ogilvy took him by the arm. “''Tis midnight's holy hour,'” he quoted, “'and silence now is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er a still and pulseless world.' Bryce, old chap, this is one of those occasions where silence is golden. Speak not. I'll do it for you. Miss Sumner,” he continued, bowing graciously, “and Colonel Pennington,” favouring that triumphant rascal with an equally gracious bow, “we leave you in possession of the field—temporarily. However, if anybody should drive up in a hack and lean out and ask you, just tell him Buck Ogilvy has another trump tucked away in his kimono.”
Bryce turned to go, but with a sudden impulse Shirley laid her hand on his arm—his left arm. “Bryce!” she murmured.
He lifted her hand gently from his forearm, led her to the front of the locomotive, and held her hand up to the headlight. Her fingers were crimson with blood.
“Your uncle's killer did that, Shirley,” he said ironically. “It's only a slight flesh-wound, but that is no fault of your allies. Good-night.”
And he left her standing, pale of face and trembling, in the white glare of the headlight.