H. Herrington Campbell's fingers went tentatively to his vest pocket for a cigar, extracted the broken remains of one--the relic of his own collision with the back of a car seat where the smash had hurled him--and threw it away with an icy smile. "Blame?" expostulated H. Herrington Campbell ironically. "I don't want to blame any one; I'm looking for some one to congratulate--on the worst run division and the most pitiful exemplification of near-railroading I've had any experience with in twenty years--Mr. Regan." For a full minute Regan did not speak. He couldn't. And then the words came away with a roar from the bluff little master mechanic. "By glory!" he exploded. "We don't take that kind of talk out here even from general managers--we don't have to! That's straight enough, ain't it? Well, I'll give you some more of it, now I've started. I don't like you. I don't like that pained look on your face. I've been filling up on you all morning, and you don't digest well. We don't stand for anything as raw as that from any man on earth. And you needn't hunt around for any greased words, as far as I'm concerned, to do your firing with--you can have my resignation as master mechanic of the worst run division you've seen in twenty years right now, if you want it--h'm?" H. Herrington Campbell was gallingly preoccupied. "How long are we stalled here for--the rest of the night?" he inquired irrelevantly. Regan stared at him a moment--still apoplectic. "I've ordered them to run the forward end of the freight to Eagle Pass, and take you down," he said, choking a little. "There's a couple of flats left whole that you can pile yourselves and your baggage on, and down there they'll make up a new train for you." "Oh, very good," said H. Herrington Campbell curtly. And ten minutes later, the Directors' Special, metamorphosed into a string of box cars with two flats trailing on the rear, on which the newly elected board of the Transcontinental sat, some on their baggage, and some with their legs hanging over the sides, pulled away from the wreck and headed down the grade for Eagle Pass. Funny, the transition from the luxurious leather upholstery of the observation to an angry, chattering mob of magnates, clinging to each others' necks as they jounced on the flooring of an old flat? Well perhaps--it depends on how you look at it. Regan looked at it--and Regan grinned for the pure savagery that was in him. "But I guess," said Regan to himself, as he watched them go, "I guess mabbe I'll be looking for that job on the Penn after all--h'm?"