“So I concluded when I got the slip from you. That’s why I went to headquarters to fix things before coming here--saved a few minutes. Also I told my Chino to get up the carriage. It’ll be ready.... Our British friend will have to get his business transacted at once or he won’t get off for Shanhaikwan this morning.... Great God, Weed, did you get the battle--any of it?” “I was with the left wing all day yesterday, Consul--it seems like a month ago. Oku was beating his brains out against the Russian intrenchments.” They were crossing the Square. Bingley’s voice reached them: “Oh, I say, American Consul, prod up my man a bit--won’t you?” The agonized face behind the bars took the edge off his own success to Routledge. He knew what these moments meant to the “Horse-killer.” “Unfortunately, I’m not on speaking terms with the British Consul,” Milner observed lightly to Routledge, as they hurried to the carriage. “I take it that Kuroki has crossed the Taitse--what have you heard?” Routledge inquired quickly. “Just that much,” Milner replied. “The Japanese here say that Oyama will enter the city to-day. Kuroki pontooned the river two days ago. What you saw was the terrific effort of the Japanese to hold the bulk of the Russian army in the city and below while Kuroki flanked.” “Exactly. I’m doing the story on those lines. I’ll be in Shanhaikwan to-night. You’ll get the decision to-day probably--wire me anywhere along the route, Consul?” “Of course.” “The _World-News_ will get you Tokyo for your next post,” Routledge said with a laugh. “All I need is the single sentence--‘Oyama wins’ or ‘Oyama loses.’ By the way, the Japanese have got two good horses of mine----” “I’ll see to them.” The carriage reached the station at two minutes before eight. “It looks as if you had it all your own way, Weed,” Milner observed with a laugh. “God! you’ve got the world at your feet--the greatest newspaper chance in years. You’ll give ’em a story that will rip up the States. Show ’em pictures--never mind the featureless skeleton--show ’em pictures, Weed!” “I’ll try, Consul,” said Routledge, with feeling. The station-boys were clanging their bells. The eyes of both men were fixed upon a clot of dust far down the road. “Weed, my boy,” said Milner excitedly, “the race isn’t won yet. Your rival is going to make the train.” The huge figure of the “Horse-killer” was sprinting toward them, less than two hundred yards away. “So I observe,” said Routledge. “You’ll have to give me one more lift, Consul. A man who can run like that will be rather hard to beat over the half-mile course from the train to the cable-office in Shanhaikwan at seven to-night. Wire Borden, the American Combined Press man there, to arrange for me at the cable-office, and to meet me when the train pulls in to-night, with the fastest saddle-horse in Shanhaikwan--none but the fastest will do. I’ll win the half-mile!”