Part 10 (2/2)

How, for instance, the mysterious car was ever started from Chicago on such a delirious schedule, how many men in the service know that even yet?

How, for another instance, Sinclair and Francis took the ratty old car reeling into Denver with the gla.s.s shrivelled, the paint blistered, the hose burned, and a tire sprung on one of the Five-Nine's drivers--how many headquarters slaves know that?

Our end of the story never went in at all. Never went in because it was not deemed--well, essential to the getting up of the annual report. We could have raised their hair; they could have raised our salaries; but they didn't; we didn't.

In telling this story I would not be misunderstood; ours is not the only line between Chicago and Denver: there are others, I admit it. But there is only one line (all the same) that could have taken the McWilliams Special, as we did, out of Chicago at four in the evening and put it in Denver long before noon the next day.

A communication came from a great La Salle Street banker to the president of our road. Next, the second vice-president heard of it; but in this way:

”Why have you turned down Peter McWilliams's request for a special to Denver this afternoon?” asked the president.

”He wants too much,” came back over the private wire. ”We can't do it.”

After satisfying himself on this point the president called up La Salle Street.

”Our folks say, Mr. McWilliams, we simply can't do it.”

”You must do it.”

”When will the car be ready?”

”At three o'clock.”

”When must it be in Denver?”

”Ten o'clock to-morrow morning.”

The president nearly jumped the wire.

”McWilliams, you're crazy. What on earth do you mean?”

The talk came back so low that the wires hardly caught it. There were occasional outbursts such as, ”situation is extremely critical,” ”grave danger,” ”acute distress,” ”must help me out.”

But none of this would ever have moved the president had not Peter McWilliams been a bigger man than most corporations; and a personal request from Peter, if he stuck for it, could hardly be refused; and for this he most decidedly stuck.

”I tell you it will turn us upside-down,” stormed the president.

”Do you recollect,” asked Peter McWilliams, ”when your infernal old pot of a road was busted eight years ago--you were turned inside out then, weren't you? and hung up to dry, weren't you?”

The president did recollect; he could not decently help recollecting.

And he recollected how, about that same time, Peter McWilliams had one week taken up for him a matter of two millions floating, with a personal check; and carried it eighteen months without security, when money could not be had in Wall Street on government bonds.

Do you--that is, have you heretofore supposed that a railroad belongs to the stockholders? Not so; it belongs to men like Mr. McWilliams, who own it when they need it. At other times they let the stockholders carry it--until they want it again.

”We'll do what we can, Peter,” replied the president, desperately amiable. ”Good-bye.”

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