ds. With your time-report, which comes by Ry. M.
S., I want the names and records of every member of every train-crew and
every engine-crew that haul the McWilliams car." Then followed
particular injunctions of secrecy; above all, the newspapers must not
get it.

But where newspapers are, secrecy can only be hoped for--never attained.
In spite of the most elaborate precautions to preserve Peter
McWilliams's secret--would you believe it?--the evening papers had half
a column--practically the whole thing. Of course they had to guess at
some of it, but for a newspaper-story it was pretty correct, just the
same. They had, to a minute, the time of the start from Chicago, and
hinted broadly that the schedule was a hair-raiser; something to make
previous very fast records previous very slow records. And--here in a
scoop was the secret--the train was to convey a prominent Chicago
capitalist to the bedside of his dying son, Philip McWilliams, in
Denver. Further, that hourly bulletins were being wired to the
distressed father, and that every effort of science would be put forth
to keep the unhappy boy alive until his father could reach Denver on the
Special. Lastly, it was hoped by all the evening papers (to fill out the
half first column scare) that sunrise would see the anxious parent well
on towards the gateway of the Rockies.

Of course the morning papers from the Atlantic to the Pacific had the
story repeated--scare-headed, in fact--and the public were laughing at
our people's dogged refusal to confirm the report or to be interviewed
at all on the subject. The papers had the story, anyway. What did they
care for our efforts to screen a private distress which insisted on so
paralyzing a time-card for 1026 miles?

When our own, the West End of the schedule, came over the wires there
was a universal, a vociferous, kick. Dispatchers, superintendent of
motive-power, train-master, everybody, protested. We were given about
seven hours to cover 400 miles--the fastest percentage, by-the-way, on
the whole run.

"This may be grief for young McWilliams, and for his dad," grumbled the
chief dispatcher that evening, as he cribbed the press dispatches going
over the wires about the Special, "but the grief is not theirs alone."

Then he made a protest to Chicago. What the answer was none but himself
ever knew. It came personal, and he took it personally; but the manner
in which he went to work clearing track and making a card for the