Winton shook his head and groaned. “I'm a ruined man, Morty.” Adams found his cigarette case. “I guess that's so,” he said quite heartlessly. Then: “Hello! what is our friend the enemy up to now?” McGrath's fireman was uncoupling the engine from the Rosemary, and Mr. Somerville Darrah, complacently lighting his after breakfast cigar, came across to the hissing ember fire. “A word with you, gentlemen, if you will faveh me,” he began. “I am about to run down to Argentine on my engine, and I propose leaving the ladies in your cha'ge, Misteh Winton. Will you give me your word of honeh, seh, that they will not be annoyed in my absence?” Winton sprang up, losing his temper again. “It's--well, it's blessed lucky that you know your man, Mr. Darrah!” he exploded. “Go on about your business--which is to bring another army of deputy-sheriffs down on us, I take it. You know well enough that no man of mine will lay a hand on your car so long as the ladies are in it.” The Rajah thanked him, dismissed the matter with a Chesterfieldian wave of his hand, climbed to his place in the cab, and the engine shrilled away around the curve and disappeared in the snow-wreaths. Adams rose and stretched himself. “By Jove! when it comes to cheek, pure and unadulterated, commend me to a Virginia gentleman who has acquired the proper modicum of Western bluff,” he laughed. Then, with a cavernous yawn dating back to the sleepless night: “Since there is nothing immediately pressing, I believe I'll go and call on the ladies. Won't you come along for a while?” “No!” said Winton savagely; and the assistant lounged off by himself. Some little time afterward Winton, glooming over his handful of spitting embers, saw Adams and Virginia come out to stand together on the observation platform of the Rosemary. They talked long and earnestly, and when Winton was beginning to add the dull pang of unreasoning jealousy to his other hurtings, Adams beckoned him. He went, not unwillingly, or altogether willingly. “I should think you might come and say 'Good morning' to me, Mr. Winton. I'm not Uncle Somerville,” said Miss Carteret. Winton said “Good morning,” not too graciously, and Adams mocked him. “Besides being a bear with a sore head, Miss Carteret thinks you're not much of a hustler, Jack,” he said coolly. “She knows the situation; knows that you were stupid enough to promise not to lay hands on the car when we could have pushed it out of the way without annoying anybody. None the less, she thinks that you might find a way to go on building your railroad without breaking your word to Mr. Darrah.” Winton put his sore-heartedness far enough behind him to smile and say: “Perhaps Miss Virginia will be good enough to tell me how.” “I don't know how,” she rejoined quickly. “And you'd only laugh at me if I should tell you what I thought of.” “You might try it and see,” he ventured. “I'm desperate enough to take suggestions from anyone.”