“‘Has--supply--train--’” the operator repeated after a moment--“‘passed--west-to-day?’” “Now what does he answer?” “Just a moment--Here he is!--‘Not--not--’ Hold on there, what’s the matter?” “Has he stopped?” “Stopped short. That’s queer.” “Do you think so?” said Carhart, looking down into the white face of the operator. The effect of the young man’s excitement was hardly lessened by the shock of rumpled hair about his forehead and by the white collar of a nightgown which appeared above his hastily buttoned coat. “You mean--?” “Wait a little longer.” For several minutes they were silent, the operator leaning his elbows on the table, Carhart bending over him. Then, “Try him again,” said Carhart. The operator obeyed. There was no response. Carhart drew up an empty cracker box and sat down. Twenty minutes passed. “Click--clickety--click--click,” said the instrument. The operator, in a husky voice, translated the message as it came in: “‘P. Carhart, chief west’n ext. S. & W.: On receipt of this you will stop all construction work until further instructions, by order of Vice-Pres. Chambers--H. L. Tiffany.’” “That’s funny!” said the operator. Carhart did not seem to hear the exclamation. He was frowning slightly, and his lips were moving. At length he said, “Take this:-- “To C. O’F. BOURKE, Barker Hills Station:-- “Have another try, old chap. You haven’t quite caught Hen Tiffany’s style yet. “P. CARHART.” The operator laughed softly and nervously as his deft fingers transmitted this personal communication. “Got it all through?” asked the chief. “Yes, sir; all through.” “All right, then, go back to bed. Good night.” “Good night, Mr. Carhart.” * * * * * For several days now no word had come through from Flint, on “mile 109.” But twenty hours after the trouble at Barker Hills--just before supper time of the following day--a party of plainsmen came galloping into camp. One of these, a wizened little man with a kindly smile and shrewd eyes, dismounted before the headquarters tent and peered in between the flaps. “Mr. Carhart here?” “He will be in two minutes,” replied Young Van, rising from the table. “Come in, sir!” “Your Mr. Flint asked me to hand him this.” The wizened one produced a letter, and dropped into the chair which Young Van had brought forward. “Having quite a time up there, isn’t he?” “How so?” asked Young Van. It was well to speak guardedly.