, I had promised Craney to manage this railroad till he got back,"
says Tim Cannon as a matter of course.

He has it in mind to hasten and explain to Regan, but lingers a moment
in musing, unusual for him when business is to be done.

"'T was a wise old dame," he says; and recalls what Molly had stated as
a matter of fact. "If you promise--then 't is a duty." She had said
that; and: "Through storm and hardship and fear you would go--because
you promised."

"Sure!" agrees Tim, disgusted that he has not remembered this before
making the deal with Regan. "I will explain to him," says Tim, "that I
promised Craney."

All of a sudden a vast respect fills him--not reverence, for he has
none, but a respect for this wise woman who knew what was in a man so
much better than he knew himself.

Then stepping down he plunges into the depths of storm on his way back
to Barlow.

The great man laughs at his tale that the job is not done.

"You are a boy of brains, and I am not surprised at the news you bring,"
he says. "How much is the price risen, you little robber? A hundred?
Go," he says, "and finish quickly. I am not the man to haggle, be it
five hundred and a job on my railroad to boot."

And as Tim shakes his head: "What now, I ask you?"

"After starting the car down to the wreck I won't let it get away from
me, but catch it and set the brakes and ride it wild to the bottom."

"Why be such a fool as that?" demands Regan.

"'T is on account of promising Mr. Craney to manage the Suburban till he
gets back," explains Tim.

It strikes home to Regan that this is the crisis of his life, and Tim
feels his wrath as the toss of tempest. 'T would be an easy matter to
kidnap the boy here an' now, and send his own agent to wreck the car,
but even then the scheme is blocked. Tim must be accounted for
afterward. The boy must see his passengers and tell of the accident or
there will be search made for him under the wreckage, and talk in the
papers, reminding the town of the Suburban's existence, and Regan's
enemies that a charter is about to be forfeited.

"Hold!" says Regan to Tim at the door. "My word I'll not touch you
again," and the boy drops his hands from his neck, all but wrung by a
shake of the madman pacing the car. Yet his gaze lies level and clear
and there is a steadiness to the bedraggled front which baffles Regan,
such assurance being beyond nature in a boy.

"Whist!" he says warily, understanding somehow that not