The air brakes began to make themselves felt, and shortly the train came to a grinding stop.
“What station is this?” Thorpe asked the colored porter.
“Shingleville, sah,” the latter replied.
“I thought so. Wallace, when did their mill burn, anyway? I haven't heard about it.”
“Last spring, about the time you went down.”
“Is THAT so? How did it happen?”
“They claim incendiarism,” parried Wallace cautiously.
Thorpe pondered a moment, then laughed. “I am in the mixed attitude of the small boy,” he observed, “who isn't mean enough to wish anybody's property destroyed, but who wishes that if there is a fire, to be where he can see it. I am sorry those fellows had to lose their mill, but it was a good thing for us. The man who set that fire did us a good turn. If it hadn't been for the burning of their mill, they would have made a stronger fight against us in the stock market.”
Wallace and Hilda exchanged glances. The girl was long since aware of the inside history of those days.
“You'll have to tell them that,” she whispered over the back of her seat. “It will please them.”