“I wish also you would abandon your habit of running all over the place without a hat.”
“I’ll do it, sir.”
The catastrophe came with appalling suddenness. The Pacific Express Steele had saved, but himself he could not save.
Tearing down the long corridor at breakneck speed, he turned a corner and ran bang into the imposing front of the general manager. That dignified potentate staggered back against the wall gasping, while his glossy silk hat rolled to the floor. John, brought up as suddenly as if he had collided with a haystack, groaned in terror, snatched the tall hat from the floor, brushed it, and handed it to the speechless magnate.
“I’m very, very sorry, sir,” he ventured. But Mr. Acton Blair made no reply. Leaving the culprit standing there, he put on his hat and strode majestically to the division superintendent’s room.
“Manson!” he panted, dropping into a chair, “discharge that lunatic at once!”
The division superintendent was too straightforward a man to pretend ignorance regarding Blair’s meaning. His face hardened into an expression of obstinacy that amazed his chief.
“The Rockervelt system is deeply indebted to Mr. Steele—a debt it can never repay. He saved Number Three last November from what would have been the most disastrous accident of the year.”
“Why was I never told of this?”
“For three reasons, sir. First, the fewer people that know of such escapes, the better; second, Hammond, who was responsible, voluntarily resigned on plea of ill-health; third, Hammond was your nephew.”