P. S. By the way, that Wall-street fight was only the opening skirmish. The Commodore is raiding S. & W. for business. I guess you know how he does these things. The _Pierrepont Enterprise_ says he has already got control of the board, so it will probably be our turn next. If you haven’t plenty of weapons, you’d better order what you need at Red Hills right away. And don’t forget that you’re working for Daniel De Reamer. P. C. He folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, addressed it, and then tipped back and ran his long fingers through his hair. He was surprised to find that his forehead was beaded with sweat. “Lovely climate, this,” he said to himself; adding after a moment, “Now what have I forgotten?” For several minutes he balanced there, supporting himself by resting the fingers of one hand against a tall case labelled, “A B C Spool Cotton,” in the flat, glass-fronted drawers of which he kept his maps and papers. Finally he muttered, “Well, if I have forgotten anything, I’ve forgotten it for good,” and the front legs of his chair came down, and he reached across the table for his hat. But instead of rising, he lingered, fingering the wide hat-brim. The yellow lamplight fell gently on his face, now leaner than ever. “I wonder what they think a man is made of,” thought he. “Nothing very valuable, I guess, from what an engineer gets paid. I’m in the wrong business. It’s my sort of man who does the work, and it’s the speculators and that sort who get the money,--God help ’em!” Again he made as if to rise, and again he paused. “Oh!” he said, “of course, that was it.” He clapped his hat on the back of his head, reached out for a letter which he had that evening written to Mrs. Carhart, opened the envelope, and added these words:-- “Have Thomas Nelson plant the nasturtiums along the back fence. There isn’t enough sunshine out in front for anything but the honeysuckle and the Dutchman’s pipe. And he’d better screen the fence with golden glow, set out pretty thick the whole way, between the nasturtiums and the fence. The crab-apple tree will be in the way, but it’s so near dead that he’d better cut it down. I like your other arrangements first rate.” This, and a few other east-bound letters, he put in his handbag. Then he looked at his watch. “Hello!” said he, “it’s to-morrow morning.” He pulled his hat forward, took up the lamp, and stepped out through the tent opening, holding the lamp high and looking down, through the night, toward the track. The silence, in spite of a throbbing locomotive, or perhaps because of it, was almost overwhelming. There was not a cloud in the sky; the stars were twinkling down. “How horribly patient it is,” he thought. “We’re slap bang up against the Almighty.” “Toot! Too-oo-oot!” came from the throbbing locomotive. “All right, sir!” he muttered. “Be with you in a minute.”