Dougherty, with a gulp, obeyed Carhart. And half an hour later the chance observers and the yard loafers were rubbing their eyes. Laborers were busy from one end of the yard to the other, throwing out boxes and bales and crates, and piling them haphazard between the tracks. The tired, wheezy switch engine, enveloped in a cloud of its own steam, was laboriously making up the first train. And moving quietly about, issuing orders and giving a hand here and there, followed by the disturbed eyes of the general superintendent and the chief engineer of the Shaky and Windy, Paul Carhart was bossing the work. Once he stepped over to the two men of the disturbed eyes, a thoughtful expression on his own face. “Say, Tiffany,” he asked, “how much business does the Paradise Southern do?” Tiffany started, and looked keenly at Carhart. There was a faint glimmer in his eyes, but this was followed immediately by uncertainty. “None,” he replied; “that is, none to speak of. They run a combination car each way every day--two cars when business is brisk. The Old Man would have abandoned it years ago if it hadn’t been for the stock scheme I told you about.” “Yes,” mused Carhart, “that’s what I understood. But if it’s such a mistake, why was it built in the first place?” “Oh, they were going to run it through to Bonavita on the Emerald River, but the B. & G. got all there was of that business first, and so the P. S. never got beyond Total Wreck. Mr. De Reamer never built it. The old Shipleigh crowd did that before Mr. De Reamer bought up this property.” The faint glimmer had returned to Tiffany’s eyes; he was searching Carhart’s face. “You want these trains sent on through to your camp, don’t you?” he asked abruptly. “No, they are to go down over the P. S.” Tiffany’s expression was growing almost painful. Carhart went on. “There are sidings at Total Wreck, aren’t there, Peet?” he asked. “Oh, yes, quite a yard there; but it’s badly run down.” “What other sidings are there along the line?” “Long ones at Yellow House and Dusty Bend.” “How long?” “Nearly two miles each.” “How long is the line?” “Forty-five miles.” “Good Lord!” The exclamation was Tiffany’s. He was staring at Carhart with an expression of such mingled astonishment, incredulity, and expansive delight, that Peet’s curiosity broke its bounds. “For God’s sake, Tiffany,” he cried, “what is it? What’s he going to do?” But Tiffany did not hear. He was gazing at Paul Carhart, saying incoherent things to him, and bringing down a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was somewhat frightened--never before, even in his own emphatic life, had his routine notions received such a wrench--but his eyes were shining. “Lord! Lord!” he was saying, “but there’ll be swearing in Sherman to-morrow.” “The time has come when I ought to know what”--this from the purple Peet. “Don’t ask him, Lou,” cried Tiffany, “don’t ask him. If we smash, it won’t be your fault. Ain’t that right, Paul?”