"That'll do, Flint!" the younger man retorted in a rough, hoarse voice. "If there's any trouble, I'll find it and repair it. Very well. But I'll not be talked to in any such way. Damn it, you can't speak to me Flint, as if I were one of the people! If you own half the earth, I'll have you understand I own the other half. So go easy, Flint--go damned easy!" Malevolently he eyed the old man's beast-like face. The scorn and dislike he had conceived for Flint, years ago, when Flint had failed to win back Catherine to him, had long grown keener and more bitter. Waldron took it as a personal affront that Flint, apparently so worn and feeble, could still hang on to life and brains enough to dominate the enterprise. A thousand times, if once, he had wished Flint well dead and buried and out of the way, so that he, Waldron, could grasp the whole circle of the stupendous Air Trust. This, his supreme ambition, had been constantly curbed by Flint's survival; and as the months and years had passed, his hate had grown more deep, more ugly, more venomous. "Why, curse it," Waldron often thought, "the old dope has taken enough morphine in his lifetime to have killed a hundred ordinary men! And yet he still clings on, and withers, and grows yellow like an old dead leaf that will not drop from the tree! When _will_ he drop? When _will_ Father Time pick the despicable antique? My God, is the man immortal?" Such being the usual tenor of his thoughts, concerning Flint, small wonder that he took the old man's chiding with an ill grace, and warned him pointedly not to continue it. Now, facing the Billionaire, he fairly stared him out of countenance. An awkward silence followed. Both heard, with relief, a rapping at the office door. "Come!" snapped Flint. A clerk appeared, with a yellow envelope in hand. "Another wireless, sir," said he. Flint snatched it from him. "Send Herzog and Slade, at once," he commanded, as he ripped the envelope. "Well, more trouble?" insolently drawled "Tiger" happy in the paling of the old man's face and the sudden look of apprehension there. For all answer, Flint handed him the message. Waldron read: Southern and Gulf States all seemingly cut off from every kind of communication this P.M. Can get no news. Is this according to your orders? If not, can you inform me probable cause? I ask instructions. "K." Silence, a minute, then Waldron whistled, and began pulling at his thick lower lip, a sure sign of perturbation. "By the Almighty, Flint" said he. "I--maybe I was wrong just now, to be so confoundedly touchy about--about what you said. This--certainly looks odd, doesn't it? It _can't_ be a series of coincidences! There must be something back of it, all. But--but _what_? Rebellion is out of the question, now, and has been for a long time. Revolution? The way we're organized, the very idea's an absurdity! But, if not these, what?" Flint stared at him with drug-contracted eyes.