in the interim his services and his presence could both
be dispensed with. No reason was assigned, though the teeming columns of
the press contained reason more than enough.

"Turned out like a dog," he snarled. "Let us see what they'll say in the
morning."

And then he started and listened, for down on the floor below, light
hurried foot-falls sped along the corridor. It was Florence hastening to
her father's room. Stealthily Elmendorf sprang to the landing without,
leaned over the balustrade, and bent his ear. He heard the unmistakable
r-r-r-r-ing of the telephone bell,--Allison's own room, too. Then he had
had to yield one pet prejudice at least as a result of the wide-spread
influence of the strike. "He'll have to yield to more than that," said
Elmendorf.

"Give me 332,--quick, please," he heard her call, her voice tremulous
with excitement. That was not Allison's office; that was not the club
nor the managers' association. Where then was he? What scheme was afoot?
Hist! "Is that the superintendent's office P.Q. & R.?" she asked, "Is
Mr. Allison there--Mr. John Allison? No? Where? Down at the depot?
Please send for him at once to come to the 'phone. Say his daughter has
despatches for him of the utmost importance. Yes, I'll hold the line."

Silence for a long, long minute. Elmendorf could hear his heart thumping
loud. What on earth could Allison be doing at the depot of the P.Q. & R.
at one in the morning? The tracks of the road in a dozen places between
the station and the suburbs were piled high with wrecked freight-cars at
nine o'clock. The beautiful Silver Special, scheduled to leave each
night at eleven-thirty, had been stalled there since the strike began,
yet rumor had it that the management meant to launch it southwestward,
mails, express, buffet, chair-car, and sleepers complete, if they had to
cram its roofs and platforms with deputies armed with Winchesters.
Could it be that already wrecking-trains were clearing a passage, and
that this hated train, the reddest rag that could be flaunted in the
face of the raging bull of the strike, was to burst the blockade and
cover the strikers with derision? Perish all thought of sleep or change
of linen! That station was a long three miles away, but he could get
there, and to the haunts of the strikers farther beyond. But first he
must hear the purport of those despatches. Now--her voice again!

"Yes. What is it? Oh, papa? Can you hear me?--distinctly? Then liste