he spacious
writing-and lounging-room, sacred, in the season, to the guests of the
exclusive hotel, housed a ranking of glass-topped telegraph-tables and
impromptu desks--a work-room manned by a dozen picked young men, with
O'Brien, the vice-president's private secretary, acting as the chief.

Though the momentous Tuesday was still three days in the future, Mr.
McVickar was actively at work on the Saturday morning, gathering in the
loose ends and strengthening the railroad company's defences. With his
arm-chair drawn up to the borrowed desk he was running rapidly through
the telegrams filtering in a steady shower from the crackling sounders
in the writing-room. When the situation had begun to outline itself with
something like coherence, he pressed a call-button for O'Brien.

"How about that wire to Detwiler at Ophir--any reply yet?" was the
rasping demand shot at the secretary.

"Nothing yet; no, sir."

"Go after him again! There's a screw loose among those miners! How about
Hathaway? Did you phone Twin Buttes?"

"Yes; and Grogan, the mill time-keeper, answered. He says Mr. Hathaway
is in the capital and something has gone wrong--he doesn't know what."

"Keep the wires hot until you can get hold of Hathaway himself, and
when you nail him, switch him over to my phone. Any word from the
irrigation people at Natcho?"

"Yes. They say that the farmers under the High Line have been getting
restive and forming associations. Daniels was the man who talked to me,
and he says it's a Gordon movement, though the ranchmen are trying to
keep it quiet."

"Take a message to Daniels!" snapped the vice-president; and then,
dictating: "'How would it do to let it be known quietly that Gordon's
election means raise in price of water to High Line users?' Send that,
and sign it 'Committee of Safety.' Now how about Kittredge? Did you get
him?"

"I did; he's driving out in his car, and he ought to be here in a few
minutes."

As if to make O'Brien's word good, the roar of an automobile came from
the driveway, dominating for the moment the chattering of the
telegraph-instruments, and a little later Kittredge came in, lifting his
goggles and wiping the road dust from his closely clipped black beard.

"That car of yours isn't what it might be, Kittredge," was the
vice-president's crusty greeting. "You'd better get a faster one. Sit
down, and let's have it. How are things shaping up in the city?"

The big superintendent sat down and