y turned loose in Texas, and went on
fantastically through a hundred changes and chops of life, the scenes
shifting from State after Western State, from cities that sprang up in
a month and--in a season utterly withered away, to wild ventures in
wilder camps that are now laborious, paved municipalities. It covered
the building of three railroads and the deliberate wreck of a fourth.
It told of steamers, townships, forests, and mines, and the men of
every nation under heaven, manning, creating, hewing, and digging
these. It touched on chances of gigantic wealth flung before eyes that
could not see, or missed by the merest accident of time and travel; and
through the mad shift of things, sometimes on horseback, more often
afoot, now rich, now poor, in and out, and back and forth, deck-hand,
train-hand, contractor, boarding-house keeper, journalist, engineer,
drummer, real-estate agent, politician, dead-beat, rum-seller,
mine-owner, speculator, cattle-man, or tramp, moved Harvey Cheyne,
alert and quiet, seeking his own ends, and, so he said, the glory and
advancement of his country.

He told of the faith that never deserted him even when he hung on the
ragged edge of despair--the faith that comes of knowing men and things.
He enlarged, as though he were talking to himself, on his very great
courage and resource at all times. The thing was so evident in the
man's mind that he never even changed his tone. He described how he had
bested his enemies, or forgiven them, exactly as they had bested or
forgiven him in those careless days; how he had entreated, cajoled, and
bullied towns, companies, and syndicates, all for their enduring good;
crawled round, through, or under mountains and ravines, dragging a
string and hoop-iron railroad after him, and in the end, how he had sat
still while promiscuous communities tore the last fragments of his
character to shreds.

The tale held Harvey almost breathless, his head a little cocked to one
side, his eyes fixed on his father's face, as the twilight deepened and
the red cigar-end lit up the furrowed cheeks and heavy eyebrows. It
seemed to him like watching a locomotive storming across country in the
dark--a mile between each glare of the open fire-door: but this
locomotive could talk, and the words shook and stirred the boy to the
core of his soul. At last Cheyne pitched away the cigar-butt, and the
two sat in the dark over the lapping water.

"I've never told that to any one before,