Neither O'Neil nor his host was in sight when the girls came to breakfast. The men had risen early, it seemed, and were somewhere out in the storm. A wilder day would be hard to imagine; a hurricane was raging, the rain was whirled ahead of it like charges of shot. The mountains behind Kyak were invisible, and to seaward was nothing but a dimly discernible smother of foam and spray, for the crests of the breakers were snatched up and carried by the wind. The town was sodden; the streets were running mud. Stove-pipes were down, tents lay flattened in the mire, and the board houses were shaking as if they might fly to pieces at any moment. The darkness was uncanny, and the tempest seemed to be steadily growing in violence.
When an hour or two had passed with no word from the men Eliza announced her intention of looking them up. She had spent the time at a window, straining her eyes through the welter, while Natalie had curled up cozily with a book in one of Trevor's arm-chairs.
"But, dearie, you'll be drenched." Natalie looked up in surprise. "Mr. O'Neil is all right."
"Of course he is. I'm not going out to spank him and bring him in. I want to look at the storm."
"So do I, but it won't do any good. I can't make it blow any harder by getting my feet wet."
"You read your novel and talk to Mr. Trevor when he comes back. He knows we're to blame for this storm, so you must be nice to him. I can't." She clad herself in rain-coat, sou'wester, and boots, and hurried out. Walking was difficult enough, even in the shelter of the village, but not until she had emerged upon the beach did she meet the full strength of the gale. Here it wrapped her garments about her limbs until she could scarcely move. The rain came horizontally and blinded her; the wind fairly snatched her breath away and oppressed her lungs like a heavy weight. She shielded herself as best she could, and by clinging to stationary objects and watching her chance she managed to work her way onward. At last she caught sight of O'Neil, standing high above the surf, facing the wind defiantly, as if daring it to unfoot him. He saw her and came in answer to her signal; but to breast that wind was like stemming a rushing torrent, and when he reached her side he was panting.
"Child! What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"I couldn't wait any longer," she shouted back. "You've been out since daylight. You must be wet through."
He nodded. "I lay awake all night listening. So did Trevor. He's beginning to worry already."
"Already? If the breakwater stands this—"
"The storm hasn't half started! Come! We'll watch it together." He took her hand, and they lunged into the gale, battling their way back to his point of vantage. He paused at length, and with his arm about her pointed to the milk-white chaos which marked Trevor's handiwork. The rain pelted against their faces and streamed from their slickers.
The breakwater lay like a reef, and over it the sea was pounding in mighty wrath. High into the air the waters rose, only to disappear upon the bosom of the gale. They engulfed the structure bodily, they raced along it with thunderous detonations, bursting in a lather of rage. Out beyond, the billows appeared to be sheared flat by the force of the wind, yet that ceaseless upheaval of spume showed that the ocean was in furious tumult. For moments at a time the whole scene was blotted out by the scud, then the curtain would tear asunder and the wild scene would leap up again before their eyes.
Eliza screamed a question at her companion, but he did not seem to hear; his eyes roved back and forth along that lace-white ridge of rock on the weakness of which depended his salvation. She had never seen him so fierce, so hawklike, so impassive. The gusts shook him, his garments slatted viciously, every rag beneath his outer covering was sodden, yet he continued to face the tempest as indifferently as he had faced it since the dawn. The girl thrilled at thought of the issue these mighty forces were fighting out before her eyes, and of what it meant to the man beside her. His interests became hers; she shared his painful excitement. Her warm flesh chilled as the moisture embraced her limbs; but her heart was light, for O'Neil's strong arm encircled her, and her body lay against his.
After a long time he spoke. "See! It's coming up!" he said.
She felt no increase in the wind, but she noted that particles of sand and tiny pebbles from the beach were flying with the salt raindrops. Her muscles began to tremble from the constant effort at resistance, and she was relieved when Murray looked about for a place of refuge. She pointed to a pile of bridge timbers, but he shook his head.
"They'll go flying if this keeps up." He dragged her into the shelter of a little knoll. Here the blasts struck them with diminished force, the roaring in their ears grew less, and the labor of breathing was easier.
Rousing himself from his thoughts, the man said, gently:
"Poor kid! You must be cold."
"I'm freezing. But—please don't send me back." The face that met his was supplicating; the eyes were bluer than a spring day. He patted her dripping shoulder.
"Not until you're ready."
"This is grander than our trip past the glacier. That was merely dangerous, but this—means something."
"There may be danger here if we expose ourselves. Look at that!"
High up beyond reach of the surf a dory had been dragged and left bottom up. Under this the wind found a fingerhold and sent it flying. Over and over it rolled, until a stronger gust caught it and sent it in huge leaps, end over end. It brought up against the timber pile with a crash, and was held there as if by a mighty suction. Then the beams began to tremble and lift. The pile was disintegrated bit by bit, although it would have required many hands to move any one of its parts.
Even where the man and the woman crouched the wind harried them like a hound pack, but by clinging to the branches of a gnarled juniper bush they held their position and let the spray whine over their heads.
"Farther west I've seen houses chained to the earth with ships' cables," he shouted in her ear. "To think of building a harbor in a place like this!"
"I prayed for you last night. I prayed for the wind to come," said the girl, after a time.
O'Neil looked at her, curiously startled, then he looked out at the sea once more. All in a moment he realized that Eliza was beautiful and that she had a heart. It seemed wonderful that she should be interested in his fortunes. He was a lonely man; beneath his open friendliness lay a deep reserve. A curiously warm feeling of gratitude flamed through him now, and he silently blessed her for bearing him company in the deciding hour of his life.
Noon came, and still the two crouched in their half-shelter, drenched, chilled, stiff with exposure, watching Kyak Bay lash itself into a boiling smother. The light grew dim, night was settling; the air seemed full of screaming furies. Then O'Neil noticed bits of driftwood racing in upon the billows, and he rose with a loud cry.
"It's breaking up!" he shouted. "It's breaking up!"
Eliza lifted herself and clung to him, but she could see nothing except a misty confusion. In a few moments the flotsam came thicker. Splintered piling, huge square-hewn timbers with fragments of twisted iron or broken bolts came floating into sight. A confusion of wreckage began to clutter the shore, and into it the sea churned.
The spindrift tore asunder at length, and the watchers caught a brief glimpse of the tumbling ocean. The breakwater was gone. Over the place where it had stood the billows raced unhindered.
"Poor Trevor!" said O'Neil. "Poor Trevor! He did his best, but he didn't know." He looked down to find Eliza crying. "What's this? I've kept you here too long!"
"No, no! I'm just glad—so glad. Don't you understand?"
"I'll take you back. I must get ready to leave."
"Leave? Where—"
"For New York! I've made my fight, and I've won." His eyes kindled feverishly. "I've won in spite of them all. I hold the key to a kingdom. It's mine—mine! I hold the gateway to an empire, and those who pass through must pay." The girl had never seen such fierce triumph in a face. "I saw it in a dream, only it was more than a dream." The wind snatched O'Neil's words from his lips, but he ran on: "I saw a deserted fishing-village become a thriving city. I saw the glaciers part to let pass a great traffic in men and merchandise. I saw the unpeopled north grow into a land of homes, of farms, of mining-camps, where people lived and bred children. I heard the mountain passes echo to steam whistles and the whir of flying wheels. It was a wonderful vision that I saw, but my eyes were true. They called me a fool, and it took the sea and the hurricane to show them I was right." He paused, ashamed of his outburst, and, taking the girl's hand in his, went stumbling ahead of the storm.
Their limbs were cramped, their teeth chattered, they wallowed through mire, and more than once they fell. Nearing Trevor's house, they saw what the storm had done. Kyak was nearly razed. Roofs had been ripped off, chimneys were down, glass was out. None but the most substantial log cabins had withstood the assault, and men were busied in various quarters trying to repair the damage.
They found Natalie beside herself with anxiety for their safety, and an hour later Trevor came in, soaked to the skin. He was very tired, and his face was haggard.
"Well! She went out!" he said. "I saw a million dollars swallowed up in that sea."
They tried to comfort him, but the collapse of his work had left him dazed.
"God! I didn't think it could blow like this—and it isn't over yet. The town is flat."
"I'm sorry. You understand I sympathize?" said Murray; and the engineer nodded.
"You told me it blew here, and I thought I knew what you meant, but nothing could withstand those rollers."
"Nothing."
"You'll go East and see our people, I suppose?"
"At once."
"Tell them what you saw. They'll never understand from my reports. They're good people. If there's anything I can do—"
O'Neil took his hand warmly.
Two days later Murray bade the girls good-by, and left, traveling light. They remained in Kyak so that Eliza might complete her investigations.
Of all those who suffered by the storm Curtis Gordon took his misfortune hardest. This had been a black season for him, indeed. Beginning with O'Neil's rivalry, everything had gone against him. He had dropped his coal interests at Kyak in favor of the copper-mine, because they failed to yield quick profits. Then he had learned that the mine was valueless, and realized that it could not serve him much longer as a means of raising funds. Still, he had trusted that by taking a vigorous part in the railroad struggle he would be able either to recoup his fortunes or at least to effect a compromise in the shadow of which his fiasco at Hope would be forgotten. As yet the truth about Hope Consolidated was not generally known to his stock-holders, but a certain restlessness among them had become troublesome. The stream of money had diminished alarmingly, and it was largely because of this that he had bought the McDermott right-of-way and moved to Kyak. And now, just as he had his affairs in shape for another and a greater campaign of stock-flotation, the storm had come to ruin him.
The bitterest element in his defeat was the realization that O'Neil, who had bested him at every turn, was destined to profit by the very blow which crushed him. Defeat at the hands of the Copper Trust he would have accepted with a fairly good grace; but the mere thought that Murray O'Neil, whom he considered in every way his inferior, had gained the upper hand was intolerable. It was in keeping with Gordon's character that instead of blaming his own judgment he became furiously angry at the Trust for the mistake of its engineers, and held them responsible for his desperate situation. That it was truly desperate he very soon realized, since disaster to his railroad project meant that his stock-holders would be around his ears like a swarm of hornets, and once they understood the true state of affairs at Hope the complete collapse of his fortunes would surely follow.
During the days succeeding the storm he scarcely knew where to turn, so harassed was he; yet he never for a moment wavered in his resolve to make O'Neil pay for his interference and to exact a reckoning from Gloria Gerard.
Natalie's presence in Kyak confirmed his belief that O'Neil was interested in her, and he began to plan a stroke by which he could take revenge upon all three. It did not promise in any way to help him out of his financial straits, but at least it would give him a certain satisfaction.
He sent word to the girl that he would like to see her.
Gordon found his erstwhile ward greatly improved by her recent life. She was brown, vigorous, healthy; her physical charms quickened his pulses.
"You must have a very good reason for coming to see me," she began. "I don't flatter myself that it is from affection."
"There you wrong me," he assured her, with the warm earnestness he so easily assumed. "I have always regarded you as a daughter."
"I have no faith in you."
"Exactly, and the knowledge distresses me. You and Gloria were a large part of my life; I can't bear to lose you. I hope—and I believe—that her regard for me has changed no more than mine for her. It remains for me to regain yours."
"That is impossible. You had the chance—"
"My dear, you can't know my reasons for acting as I did at Omar. But those reasons no longer exist."
"Just what—do you mean by that?" stammered Natalie.
"I mean what I say. I'm ready to marry your mother."
"When?"
"At once. You shall plead my cause for me. You shall add your voice to mine—"
"That isn't necessary. You know mother is only waiting for you. It means so much to her that she couldn't refuse."
"Doesn't it mean anything to you?"
Natalie nodded. "It means more to me than to any one else, perhaps. I have been carrying a great burden, almost more than I can bear. Sometimes I've wished I were a man—for just long enough to make you pay. Oh yes," she continued, as he started to protest. "Don't let us begin this new life with any false conceptions; you may as well know that I shall always hate you. We shall see very little of each other."
"Nonsense! I can't let you feel like that. I sha'n't rest until I win back your love and confidence."
She eyed him searchingly for a moment, then opened her lips to speak, but closed them.
"Well?" he prompted her. "Let us be frank with each other."
"I'm merely wondering how greatly your decision has been influenced by the storm and the fight at the railroad crossing. I understand how you feel toward Mr. O'Neil, and I know that he means to crush you."
"Oh!" Gordon's face lighted.
"Yes! He has never said so, but I can feel it. I wonder if you have snatched us up in your extremity as a defense."
"Ridiculous! Your suspicions are insulting. I have nothing to fear from him, for he is broken, his credit is gone, he is in desperate straits."
"Are you in any better condition? How long can you fool your people with that pretense of a mine?"
Gordon flushed, but affected scorn. "So! Have you and Gloria begun to balance my wealth against my love? If so—"
"You know she would marry you if you were penniless."
"I hope so—and, indeed, I can't believe her mercenary. Well, I shall say good-by to Kyak, without idle regret, and we three shall return to Hope, where I can attack my problems with fresh courage. I can well afford my loss here, if by doing so I gain the woman of my desires."
"You want me to go with you?"
"Of course. You can't stay in Omar, knowing what you do about O'Neil. Remember, I shall be in the position of a father to you."
"Very well. It is the least I can do. Miss Appleton and I are returning to Omar in a few days. Will you go with us?"
"I shall be delighted, my dear." He smiled upon her in his most fatherly fashion, but she was far from feeling the assurance he meant to convey.
The eighteen-hour train from Chicago bore Murray O'Neil into New York on time, and he hastened directly to the Holland House, where the clerk greeted him as if he had run in from Yonkers instead of from the wilderness of the far northwest. His arrival was always the forerunner of great prosperity for the bell-boys, and there was the customary struggle for his baggage.
An hour later, having bathed and changed his linen, he was whizzing toward lower Broadway, with the roar of the Subway in his ears. New York looked very good to O'Neil, for this time he came not as a suppliant, but as a conqueror, and a deep contentment rested in his heart. More than once during the last two years he had made this flying trip across an ocean and a continent, but heretofore he had been burdened with worries and responsibilities. Always he had needed to gather his wits for some supreme effort; always there had been the urgent necessity of raising money. As the S. R. & N. had grown his obligations had increased; and, while he had never returned empty-handed, no one but he knew at what cost of time and strength he had succeeded in financing his venture. Invariably he had left New York mentally and physically exhausted, and his days in the open had barely served to replenish his store of nervous energy for the next campaign.
As he looked back upon it all he was amazed at his daring in attempting to finance a railroad out of his own pocket. But he had won, and the Trust had met with a sharp reverse in attempting to beat him at his own game. He held the winning card, and he looked out upon the world through eyes which were strained and weary, but complacent.
Mr. Herman Heidlemann was expecting him.
"You have the most confident way of arranging appointments from the other side of the world," he began, as O'Neil entered his office. "Steamships and railroads appear to be your obedient servants."
"Not always. I find railroads very troublesome at times."
"Well, you're on time to the minute," said Heidlemann. "Now tell me about Kyak. Trevor cables that you were there during the storm which ruined us." The head of the copper syndicate did not look like a man facing ruin; in fact, he seemed more curious to hear of the physical phenomena of that hurricane than of its effect upon his fortunes.
"Kyak was a great mistake," he admitted, when O'Neil had given him the particulars he asked for. "We're all agreed on that point. Some of our associates feel that the whole Alaskan enterprise has been a mistake—mines and all."
"Your mines are as good as they ever were, but Kyak is a long way from Wall Street, and you relied too much upon other people's judgment."
"We have to rely upon our experts."
"Of course. But that country must have a railroad."
"Must?" Heidlemann lifted his brows. "It has done very well without one so far. Our friends call us crazy for trying to build one, and our enemies call us thieves."
"You can't afford to give up."
"No. There's an element of pride in the matter, and I really believe the country does need transportation."
"You can't understand how badly it needs it."
"Yet it's a heavy load to carry," said Heidlemann, with conviction, "for a road will lose money for many years. We were willing to wait until the agriculture and the mining developed, even though the profit came only to our children; but—we have been misunderstood, abused by the press and the public. Even Congress is down on us. However, I suppose you came to tell me once more that Omar is the gateway and that we need it."
O'Neil smiled. "That's hardly necessary now, is it? I own every inch of water-front at that point, and there's no other harbor. My track will be laid to the glaciers by the time snow flies."
"Trevor reports that a bridge is possible, although expensive."
"It will cost two million dollars."
"I don't see how it can be built to withstand the ice."
"I'll guarantee to build it so it will hold."
"What is your proposition?" asked Heidlemann.
"I'll sell the S.R.&N. for five million dollars and contract to complete the road within two years on a ten-per-cent commission."
"It has cost you about three million dollars, I believe. That would leave you a handsome profit."
"One million for me, one million for my associates."
"What will the remaining hundred miles cost?"
"About ten millions. That will give me another million profit as contractor. My force and equipment is on the ground. I can save you money and a year's time."
Mr. Heidlemann drummed upon the top of his desk for a moment.
"You're a high-priced man, O'Neil," he said, finally.
"You've had experience with the other kind."
"Counting the money we've already sunk, the road would stand us about twenty million dollars completed."
"It will cost thirty to build from Cortez, and take two years longer."
Mr. Heidlemann seemed to consider this for a moment. "We've had this matter before us almost constantly since the report of the storm," he said, at length, "and after deliberation our directors have voted to do nothing just yet."
O'Neil opened his eyes in amazement.
"I don't understand."
"It's this way. Our engineers first recommended Cortez as a starting-point, and we spent a fortune there. Then you attacked the other route, and we sent Trevor up to find if you were right and we were wrong. He recommended the Salmon River valley, and told us he could build a breakwater at Kyak. You know the result. We relied upon him, for he seemed to be the best man in the country, but as a matter of precaution we later sent other engineers. Their reports came in not three months ago, and, while all seemed confident that the breakwater could be built, none of them were certain about the bridge. One, in fact, condemned it absolutely. Now on the heels of their statements comes the news that the very work they united in declaring feasible has been undone. Naturally, we don't know where we are or whom to believe."
"They simply didn't know the conditions at Kyak," argued O'Neil, "and they evidently haven't studied the bridge as I have. But you'll have to go at the breakwater again or build in from Cortez or give up."
"No, we have decided to mark time until that crossing is proved feasible. Understand, I voice the sentiment of the majority."
"If I build that bridge you may find it more difficult to buy me out," said O'Neil, quietly.
"We'll have to take our medicine," Mr. Heidlemann replied, without heat. "We cannot afford another mistake."
"This is definite?"
"Oh, absolutely! We're going slow for a time."
A blow in the face could not have affected O'Neil more disagreeably than this statement. Fortune had seemed within his grasp when he entered the room; now ruin was more imminent than it had ever been before. The ground seemed to be slipping from beneath his feet; he discovered that he was dizzy. He felt himself utterly incapable of raising the two million dollars necessary to carry his road to a point where the Trust would consider a purchase, yet to fail meant the loss of all he had put in. He knew also that these men would never recede from a position once taken.
"Hasn't this public clamor had something to do with your determination?" he asked.
"A great deal. We had the best intentions when we started—we still have—but it's time to let the general sentiment cool. We thought we were doing a fine thing for the country in opening Alaska, but it seems we're regarded as thieves and grafters. One gets tired of abuse after a while."
"Will you take an option on the S. R. & N. conditional upon the building of the bridge?"
"We couldn't very well do that. Remember you are our rival." Heidlemann smiled in his recognition of the fact that the rivalry was friendly. "To do so would fan excitement at Washington to a white heat. We'd then be in the position they now accuse us of occupying, and that would have a serious bearing upon the coal situation. No, we can't help you, O'Neil, but rest assured we won't do anything to hinder you. You have treated us fairly; we will reciprocate. Once you have built your bridge we can discuss a purchase and the abandonment of our original enterprise, but meanwhile we must proceed cautiously. It is unfortunate for us all."
"Especially for me."
"You need money badly, don't you?"
"I'm worse than broke," O'Neil admitted.
"I'd really be sorry to take over the wreck of your enterprise," Heidlemann said, earnestly, "for you have made a good fight, and your ideas were better than ours. I'd much prefer to pay your price than to profit by your misfortune. Needless to say we don't feel that way about Gordon."
"There would be no uncertainty about the bridge if I had the money. With your means I could build a road to the moon, and double-track it."
Although Murray felt that further effort was useless, he continued to argue the matter from various angles, hoping against hope to sway Heidlemann's decision. But he gave up at last. Out in the marble hall which led to the elevators he discovered that all his vigor of an hour ago had passed. The spring was out of his limbs; he walked slowly, like an old man. A glimpse of his image in the mirrors of the car as he shot downward showed him a face grave and haggard. The crowds jostled him, but he was hardly conscious of them. The knowledge that his hardest fight was yet to come filled him with sickening apprehension. He was like a runner who toes the mark for a final heat knowing himself to be upon the verge of collapse.
The magnitude of the deal narrowed his field of operations alarmingly, and he had already learned what a serious effect upon capital the agitation about Alaska had produced. More than once he had found men who were willing to invest but feared the effect of public sentiment. Popular magazines, newspapers like The Review, and writers like Eliza Appleton had been largely to blame for the wrong. They had misunderstood the problem and misinterpreted the spirit of commercial progress. But, strangely enough, he felt no bitterness at thought of Eliza. On the contrary, his heart softened in a sort of friendly yearning for her company. He would have liked to talk the matter over with her.
Looking the situation squarely in the face, he realized that he must face a crash or raise two million dollars within the next month. That meant seventy thousand dollars a day. It was a man-sized task.
He bought himself a cigar at the corner, hailed a taxicab, and was driven all the way up town to the Holland House. Once there, he established himself in that corner of the men's cafe which he always frequented.
The waiter who served him lingered to say:
"It's good to see you back in your 'office' again. You've been a long time away, sir."
O'Neil smiled as he left a silver dollar on the tray.
"It's good to be back, Joe," he said. "This time I may not leave."
O'Neil had the faculty of sleeping well, in spite of the most tormenting worries. He arose on the morning after his interview with Mr. Heidlemann, ready to begin the struggle with all his normal energy and confidence. But the day brought him only discouragement. He had a large acquaintance, the mention of his name in quarters where he was not personally known gained him respectful attention; but he found himself working in the shadow of the Copper Trust, and its silent influence overcame his strongest arguments. One banker expressed the general attitude by saying:
"If the Heidlemanns were not in the field we might help you, but it would be financial suicide to oppose them."
"There's no opposition about it," Murray assured him. "If I build that bridge they'll buy us out."
At this his hearer very naturally wished to know why, if the bridge were indeed feasible, the Heidlemanns delayed action; and O'Neil had to fall back upon a recital of the facts, realizing perfectly that they failed to carry conviction.
No one, it seemed, cared to risk even a semblance of rivalry with that monstrous aggregation of capital, for the interlacing of financial interests was amazingly intricate, and financiers were fearful of the least misstep. Everywhere O'Neil encountered the same disheartening timidity. His battle, it seemed, had been lost before it was begun.
Days passed in fruitless endeavors; evenings found O'Neil in his corner of the Holland House Cafe racking his brain for some way out of his perplexities. Usually he was surrounded by friends, for he continued to entertain in the lavish fashion for which he had gained a reputation; but sometimes he was alone, and then his solitude became more oppressive than it had ever been even in the farthest wastes of the northland. He was made to feel his responsibility with dreadful keenness, for his associates were in a panic and bombarded him with daily inquiries, vexatious and hard to answer. He had hoped that in this extremity they might give him some practical help, and they did make a few half-hearted attempts, only to meet the same discouragements as he. At last they left him to carry the burden alone.
A week, two weeks went by. He was in constant cable communication with Omar, but not even the faithful Dr. Gray knew the dire straits in which his chief was struggling. Work on the S. R. & N. was going forward as usual. The organization was running at its highest efficiency: rails were being laid; gangs of rock-workers were preparing the grade beyond the glaciers. Yet every day that passed, every pay-check drawn brought ruin closer. Nevertheless, O'Neil continued to joke and chat with the men who came to his table in the cafe and kept his business appointments with his customary cheerfulness. The waiters who attended him rejoiced in his usual princely tips.
One evening as he ran through his mail he found a letter in a woman's handwriting and, glancing at the signature, started. It was signed "Gloria Gordon." Briefly it apprised him of her marriage and of her and Natalie's return to Hope. Gloria thanked him perfunctorily for his many kindnesses, but she neither expressed nor implied an invitation for him to visit them. He smiled a little grimly—already her loyalty had veered to Gordon's side, and Natalie no doubt shared her feeling. Well, it was but natural, perhaps. It would be unreasonable to expect them to sacrifice their desires, and what they now seemed to consider their interests, to a business quarrel they could hardly be expected to understand. He could not help feeling hurt that the women should so readily exchange his friendship for the protection of his bitterest enemy, but—they were helpless and he had helped them; let it rest at that. He was really troubled, however, that they had been so easily deceived. If they had only waited! If he had only been able to advise them! For Gordon's intention was plain. He was aroused from his train of thought by a stranger whom he found standing beside his table and looking down at him with wavering eye.
"Misser O'Neil, ain't it?" the fellow inquired. "Sure! Thought I knew you. I'm Bulker, of the old North Pass. Remember me?"
Mr. Bulker had been imbibing freely. He showed evidences of a protracted spree not only in his speech, but in the trembling hand which he extended. His eyes were bloodshot, and his good-natured face was purple.
O'Neil greeted him pleasantly, and, considering himself enthusiastically welcomed, the new-comer sat down suddenly, as if some one had tripped him.
"Been washing you for ten minutes."
"Washing me?"
"No! WASHING you. Couldn't make you out—eyesight's getting bad. Too many bright lights in this town. Ha! Joke! Let's have a gill."
"Thank you, no."
"Must have a little dram for old time's sake. You're the only one of the North Pass crowd I'll drink with." Mr. Bulker gestured comprehensively at a group of waiters, and Murray yielded. "You were my friend, O'Neil; you always treated me right."
"What are you doing now?" asked O'Neil, with the interest he could not refuse to any one who had ever worked with him. He remembered the fellow perfectly. He had come on from the East as auditor, and had appeared to be capable, although somewhat given to drink.
"I'm a broker. Wall Street's my habitat. Fine time to buy stocks, Misser O'Neil." Bulker assumed an expression of great wisdom. "Like to have a tip? No? Good! You're a wise man. They fired me from the North Pass. Wha'd you know about that? Fired me for drinking! Greatest injustice I ever heard of, but I hit running, like a turkey. That wasn't the reason they let me go, though. Not on your life!" He winked portentously, and strangely enough his eyelid failed to resume its normal position. It continued to droop, giving the appearance of a waggish leer. "I knew too mush! Isn't healthy to know too mush, is it?"
"I've never had a chance to find out," smiled Murray.
"Oh, don't be an ingenue; you savvied more than anybody on the job. I'll admit I took a nip now and then, but I never got pickled. Say! Who d'you s'pose I saw to-day? Old man Illis!"
O'Neil became suddenly intent. He had been trying to get in touch with Poultney Illis for more than a fortnight, but his cables to London had brought no response.
"When did he arrive?"
"Just lately. He's a game old rooster, ain't he? Gee, he's sore!"
"Sore about what?"
Bulker winked again, with the same lack of muscular control.
"About that North Pass deal, of course. He was blackmailed out of a cold million. The agreement's about up now, and I figure he's over here to renew it."
"You're talking Greek," said O'Neil; but his eagerness was manifest.
"I s'posed you knew. The North Pass has been paying blackmail to the Yukon steamboat companies for three years. When you built the line it practically put 'em out of the Dawson market, understand?"
"Of course."
Now that Mr. Bulker's mind was running along well-worn grooves, his intoxication became less apparent.
"Those Frisco steamboat men got together and started a rate war against the railroad; they hauled freight to Dawson by way of St. Michaels at a loss. Of course Illis and his crowd had to meet competition, and it nearly broke 'em the first two seasons. Gee, they were the mad ones! Finally they fixed up an agreement—had to or go bust—and of course the Native Sons put it over our English cousins. They agreed to restore the old rate, and each side promised to pay the other a royalty of ten dollars a ton on all the freight it hauled to Dawson and up-river points. You can guess the result, can't you? The steamboat companies let Illis haul all the freight and sat back on their haunches and took their profit. For every ton he hauled he slipped 'em ten round American dollars, stamped with the Goddess of Liberty. Oh, it was soft! When they had him fairly tied up they dry-docked their steamboats, to save wear and tear. He paid 'em a thousand dollars a day for three years. If that ain't blackmail, it's a first cousin to it by marriage."
"Didn't the Interstate Commerce Commission get wise?"
"Certainly not. It looks wise, but it never GETS wise. Oh, believe me, Poultney Illis is hopping mad. I s'pose he's over here now to renew the arrangement for another three years on behalf of his stock-holders. Let's have a dram." Bulker sat back and stared as through a mist at his companion, enjoying the effect of his disclosure.
O'Neil was indeed impressed—more deeply than his informant dreamed. Out of the lips of a drunken man had come a hint which set his nerves to tingling. He knew Illis well, he knew the caliber of the Englishman, and a plan was already leaping in his brain whereby he might save the S. R. & N.
It lacked an hour of midnight when O'Neil escaped from Bulker and reached his room. Once inside, he seized the telephone and rang up hotel after hotel, inquiring for the English capitalist, but without result. After a moment's consideration he took his hat and gloves and went out. The matter did not permit of delay. Not only were his own needs imperative, but if Poultney Illis had come from London to confer with his rivals there was little time to spare.
Remembering the Englishman's habits, O'Neil turned up the Avenue to the Waldorf, where he asked for the manager, whom he well knew.
"Yes, Mr. Illis is here," he was informed, "but he's registered under a different name. No doubt he'll be glad to see you, however."
A moment later Murray recognized the voice of Illis's valet over the wire and greeted him by name. Another brief delay, and the capitalist himself was at the 'phone.
"Come right up," he said; and O'Neil replaced the receiver with a sigh of relief.
Illis greeted him warmly, for their relations had been close.
"Lucky you found me," he said. "I'm going back on the next sailing."
"Have you signed up with the Arctic Navigation Company?" Murray inquired; and the other started.
"Bless me! What do you mean?"
His caller laughed. "I see you haven't. I don't think you will, either, after you've talked with me."
Without the tremor of an eyelash Illis exclaimed:
"My word! What are you driving at?"
"That agreement over freight rates, of course."
The Briton eyed him for a moment, then carefully closed the door leading from his sitting-room, and, seating himself, lit a cigar.
"What do you know about that matter?" he asked, quietly.
"About all there is to know—enough, at least, to appreciate your feelings."
"I flattered myself that my affairs were private. Where did you get your information?"
"I'll tell you if you insist, although I'd rather not. There's no danger of its becoming public."
Illis showed his relief. "I'm glad. You gave me a start. Rotten fix for a man to be in. Why, I'm here under an assumed name! Fancy! But—" he waved his hand in a gesture which showed his acceptance of the inevitable.
"You haven't made your new agreement?"
"I'm to meet Blum and Capron to-morrow."
"Why didn't you take the S. R.& N. when I cabled you last month?"
"I couldn't. But what has that to do with the matter?"
"Don't you see? It's so plain to me that I can't understand how you failed to realize the value—the necessity of buying my road."
"Explain, please."
"Gladly. The North Pass & Yukon is paying a fabulous blackmail to the river-lines to escape a ruinous rate war."
"Right! It's blackmail, as you say."
"Under the present agreement you handle the Dawson freight and keep out of the lower river; they take the whole Tanana valley and lower Yukon."
"Correct."
"Didn't it occur to you that the S.R.& N., which starts four hundred miles west of the North Pass and taps the Tanana valley, can be used to put the river steamers of that section out of business?"
"Let's have a look at the map." Mr. Illis hurried into an adjoining room and returned with a huge chart which he unrolled upon the table. "To tell you the truth, I never looked at the proposition from that angle. Our people were afraid of those glaciers and the competition of the Copper Trust. They're disgusted, too, with our treatment."
"The Trust is eliminated. Kyak harbor is wiped off the map, and I'm alone in the field."
"How about this fellow Gordon?"
"He'll be broke in a year. Incidentally, that's my trouble."
"But I'm told you can't pass the glaciers."
"I can. Parker says he'll have the bridge done by spring."
"Then I'd bank on it. I'd believe Parker if I knew he was lying. If you both agree, I haven't the slightest doubt."
"This is a bigger proposition than the North Pass, Mr. Illis. You made money out of that road, but this one will make more." He swiftly outlined the condition of affairs, even to the attitude assumed by the Heidlemanns; and Illis, knowing the speaker as he did, had no doubt that he was hearing the exact truth. "But that's not all," continued O'Neil. "The S. R. & N. is the club which will hammer your enemies into line. That's what I came to see you about. With a voice in it you can control the traffic of all central Alaska and force the San Francisco crowd to treat the N. P. & Y. fairly, thereby saving half a million a year."
"It's a big undertaking. I'm not sure our crowd could swing it."
"They don't have to. There's a quick profit of two million to be had by selling to the Trust next spring. You can dictate your own terms to those blackmailers to-morrow, and then make a turn-over in nine months. It doesn't matter who owns the S. R. & N. after it's completed. The steamboat men will see their profits cut. As it is now, they can make enough out of their own territory to haul freight into yours for nothing."
"I dare say you'll go to them if we don't take you up, eh?"
"My road has its strategic value. I must have help. If you don't come to my rescue it will mean war with your line, I dare say."
Mr. Illis sat back, staring at the ceiling for a long time. From the street below came the whir and clatter of taxicabs as the midnight crowd came and went. The city's nocturnal life was at its height; men had put aside the worries of the day and were devoting themselves to the more serious and exhausting pastimes of relaxation. Still the white-haired Briton weighed in his mind the matter of millions, while the fortunes of Murray O'Neil hung in the balance.
"My people won't buy the S. R. & N.," Illis finally announced. "But I'll put it up to them."
"I can't delay action if there's a chance of a refusal. I'll have to see Blum and Capron," said O'Neil.
"I'll cable full details within the hour. We'll have an answer by to-morrow night."
"And if they refuse?" O'Neil lit a cigar with steady fingers.
"Oh, if they refuse I'll join you. We'll go over the matter carefully in the mean time. Two million you said, didn't you?"
"Yes. There's two million profit for you in nine months." His voice was husky and a bit uneven, for he had been under a great strain.
"Good! You don't know how resentful I feel toward Blum and his crowd. I—I'm downright angry: I am that."
Illis took the hand which his caller extended, with an expressionless face.
"I'm glad I found you," confessed O'Neil. "I was on my last legs. Herman Heidlemann will pay our price when the last bridge-bolt is driven home, and he'll pay with a smile on his face—that's the sort of man he is."
"He won't pay if he knows I'm interested. We're not exactly friendly since I sold out my smelter interests. But he needn't know—nobody need know."
Illis called his valet and instructed him to rouse his secretary and ring for some cable blanks.
"I think I'll cable, too," Murray told him. "I have some 'boys' up there who are working in the dark with their teeth shut. They're waiting for the crash, and they'd like to hear the good news."
His fingers shook as he scrawled the name of Doctor Gray, but his eyes were bright and youth was singing in his heart once more.
"Now let's get down to business," said Mr. Illis. "We'll have to talk fast."
It was growing light in the east when O'Neil returned to the Holland House; but he felt no fatigue, and he laughed from the pure joy of living, for his dream seemed coming true.