Half of Europe and a touch of Asia were represented in the faces on the platform. Meeting the night-train was the chief of the day’s social obligations in Shanhaikwan. To-night everybody was down to get the last fresh word from the field. The crowd sensed distantly that rival correspondents had come in, and that a great newspaper race was on, from the platform to the cable-office.... Spurring across the sandy station-yard, the heart of Routledge lifted to the splendid spirit of the game. He glanced around at the beating hoofs behind. Bingley was straining forward in the saddle, furiously rowelling his gray.... Above the cheering, Routledge heard his name called, and the face of Talliaferro appeared in the crowd, blurred as in a dream. Then came a voice that incited all his senses.... He did not see her. He thought it was in his soul. “Routledge-san! Win--ride to win!” Then a trailing “Routledge ... san!” The Hate of London was not in the face of Talliaferro.... As he rode, the heavenly lifting of the moment almost pulled him out of the race at hand.... “Win--ride to win!... Routledge-san!”... He spurred. The black answered. Veritably, he was a night-streak whirring cableward.... Routledge knew every step of the way. The day would have been lost, were he forced to halt for direction.... Past the Rest House, through the mud-hut quarter, breaking a detachment of Sikh infantry, he led the race--Bingley, unable to gain, back in the shadows, shouting, rowelling! There was some meaning to his words, but Routledge did not think of them, until the gun-talk.... One shot stood out by itself--and four followed.... The black sprawled.... Routledge found himself coughing, but cleared grandly from the fallen mount, and crossed the threshold of the cable-office. He realized that he had fallen with the mount, but it made no impression. His hands were bleeding. He met the dust full-length. He knew that he staggered a bit as the operator leaped over the counter and caught him in his arms.... “I’m Weed of the _World-News_.... Borden arranged for me. Here’s the copy, credentials, cable-permit.” “I’ve been waiting for you, Weed.... You’re shot--my God!” Bingley entered, his face terrible but frightened. He glanced at the man who had beaten him--from head to foot.... Routledge was leaning against the counter, his clothing caked with dust, a laugh on his face, dripping blood from a wound under his coat. “I didn’t mean to hit you--I tried to get your horse!” Bingley gasped. “You did. Go out and finish him.... You’re not much of a shot from the saddle--or perhaps you lost your nerve, Bingley.... Any way, I am long over-due for a wound.... Get a surgeon. I’m hard-hit. Hurry!” Routledge dropped forward on the counter, closing his eyes. Bingley disappeared. The operator was unfastening his clothes.