on the throne, fighting onward to the conclusion of a purpose,
no matter what it might wreck for him personally, no matter what the
cost might be to him in the days to come. He was on his last job--he
knew that. The mail contract might be won a thousand times over, but
there ever would rest the stigma that he had received a telegram which
should have been plain to him, and that he had failed to carry out its
hidden orders. But with the thought of it Martin straightened, and he
roared anew the message which carried tired, aching men through the
night:

"Go on! Go on! What's stoppin' ye? Are ye going to let these
milk-an'-water fellys over here say that ye tried and quit?"

Early morning--and there came Sni-a-bend Hill, with the snow packed
against it in a new plane which obliterated the railroad as though it
had never been there. Hot coffee came from the containers, sandwiches
from the baskets, and the men ate and drank as they worked--all but
Garrity. This was the final battle, and with it came his battle cry:

"Keep goin'! This is the tough one--we've got to go on--we've got to
go on!"

And on they went. The streaking rays of dawn played for a moment upon
an untroubled mound of white, smooth and deep upon the eastern end of
Sni-a-bend. Then, as though from some great internal upheaval, the
mass began to tremble. Great heaps of snow broke from their place and
tumbled down the embankment. From farther at the rear, steam,
augmented by the vapours of melting snow and the far-blown gushes of
spitting smoke, hissed upward toward the heights of the white-clad
hill. Then a bulging break--the roar of machinery, and a monster came
grinding forth, forcing its way hungrily onward, toward the next and
smaller contest. Within the giant auger a man turned to Garrity.

"Guess it's over, Boss. They said up at Glen Echo--"

A silent nod. Then Garrity turned, and reaching into the
telegram-blank holder at the side of the cab, brought forth paper and
an envelope. Long he wrote as the rotary clattered along, devouring
the smaller drifts in steady succession, a letter of the soul, a
letter which told of an effort that had failed, of a decision that
could not hold. And it told, too, of the return of all that Martin had
worked for--Mr. Barstow had been good to him, and he, Martin Garrity,
could not take his money and disobey him. He'd pay him back.

Whistles sounded, shrieking in answer to the tooting of others from
far away, the wild