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