pointment of his successor, Phil Hailey, a
mountain boy and the son of an old-time bridge foreman, rumor assigned
again and again definite dates for Sinclair's return to work; but the
dates never materialized. The bridge machinery of the big division
moved on in even rhythm. A final and determined appeal from the
deposed autocrat for a hearing at last brought Glover and Morris
Blood, the general manager, to Medicine Bend for a final conference.
Callahan too was there with his pipe, and they talked quietly with
Sinclair--reminded him of how often he had been warned, showed him how
complete a record they had of his plundering, and Glover gave to him
Bucks's final word that he could never again work on the mountain
division.

A pride grown monstrous with prestige long undisputed broke under the
final blow. The big fellow put his face in his hands and burst into
tears, and the men before him sat confused and uncomfortable at his
outburst of feeling. It was only for a moment. Sinclair raised his
hand, shook his long hair, and swore an oath against the company and
the men that curled the very smoke in Callahan's pipe, Callahan,
outraged at the insolence, sprang to his feet, resenting Sinclair's
fury. Choking with anger he warned him not to go too far. The two were
ready to spring at each other's throat when Farrell Kennedy stepped
between them. Sinclair, drunk with rage, called for McCloud; but he
submitted quietly to Kennedy's reproof, and with a semblance of
self-control begged that McCloud be sent for. Kennedy, without
complying, gradually pushed Sinclair out of the room and, without
seeming officious, walked with him down the hall and quite out of the
building.

CHAPTER VII

IN MARION'S SHOP

In Boney Street, Medicine Bend, stands an early-day row of one-story
buildings; they once made up a prosperous block, which has long
since fallen into the decay of paintless days. There is in Boney
Street a livery stable, a second-hand store, a laundry, a bakery, a
moribund grocery, and a bicycle shop, and at the time of this
story there was also Marion Sinclair's millinery shop; but the
better class of Medicine Bend business, such as the gambling
houses, saloons, pawnshops, restaurants, barber shops, and those
sensitive, clean-shaven, and alert establishments known as "gents'
stores," had deserted Boney Street for many years. Bats fly in the
dark of Boney Street while Front Street at the same hour is a blaze
of electr