ands his last guard in the
corner of the doomed old terminal. Twice he catches glimpses of Regan
without, compelling this storm of men and steel.

The floor is now torn up to his very feet; the far end of the building,
roof and walls, has been scattered like chaff. Indifferently Tim watches
the battered man point to him with the iron bar and waits calmly to be
dragged away by the gang.

Mr. Craney running lightly along the last remaining girder to Tim's
corner presses some folded bills and a paper into his hand.

"Salary and honorable discharge," he explains; "and invitation to the
wed----"

And his voice being smothered by a great crash within and without he
signals with his hands that not a moment is to be lost in saving
themselves alive.

Above all the uproar is a shriller yell, a rush of staggering men past
the end of the terminal, a heavy clang of steel; fighting. "Regan is
crossing the Great Southwest main!" shrieks Mr. Craney over his
shoulder.

In fact the P. D. frog for the main-line crossing is set in only after a
sharp skirmish with a G. S. force rushed up to prevent it. And then
Regan, threatened with police and military by his gathering enemies,
passes them the court order obtained during the night. By this order
they are enjoined from tearing up the frog, even before it has been laid
down! Such is the forethought of genius.

Regan's special, ordered out since midnight, stands drumming up the
line, and Tim lurking in his corner sees the signal he gives as he
crosses the track. The special glides down between them, and once more
the vagabond watches through the flying dust clouds the flash of Regan's
car, signaling farewell.

Now he is free to pick and choose where he will, but Tim Cannon girds
his rags with fierce regret; the great things within him cling to this
spot; he cannot break away, and he curses in a cold agony of
disappointment.

"I was too late. Never again will I promise the duty."

"You gang boss!" crashes a voice behind him; "breach me the wall at the
corner."

And the battered man and his crew fly at it with pick and bar.

With twisted face and hand clenched on his breast the boy stares at
Regan, who has just sent his car home without boarding it at all.

"My path lies through this corner; last night you blocked it; to-day I
will pass."

'T is a poor sort of triumph over the vagabond, whose body straightens
and stiffens proudly.

"Which I never could do with you on guard!