Bridge was an architect with a yearning for politics. For several years he had tried to keep both irons in the fire, and as a result was not over-successful in either. But he was a shrewd, silent man, and could be trusted. Jim found him designing a stable. “Sit down, Mr. Weeks. What brings you to Tillman?” “Bad business,” responded Jim, shortly. “Blaney's sold out to the C. & S.C.” Mr. Bridge sat upon his table and said nothing. When taken by surprise Mr. Bridge usually said nothing; that is why he had risen to the leadership of a faction. “I don't know just what's happened,” Jim went on, “but there's trouble ahead.” “Does Blaney say he's going to vote against you?” “No,” said Jim, “but he gave himself away.” “Can you block him?” Jim passed over the question. “I wish you'd watch him, Bridge. There's a deal on, and Frederick McNally is the other party. He's for C. & S.C. of course. Do you know him?” Bridge shook his head. “Well, never mind. I'll watch him. But you worry Blaney. He's a little rattled now,--I reckon McNally's soaked him,--and if you're careful you ought to find out something. I want to know just how they've fixed it.” Bridge nodded. “I'll keep an eye on him.” “Well,”--Jim rose,--“I've got a train to catch. Good-by.” He drove rapidly to the station; the agent hurried toward him as he pulled up at the platform. “I only got your message this minute, Mr. Weeks,” he said; “there isn't a car in the yards.” “What's that?” Jim looked at his watch. “Got an engine?” “Only the switch engine.” “I'll take that.” The agent hesitated. “You wouldn't get through before next week,” he said. “There's a couple of passenger engines in the roundhouse, but they ain't fired.” The telegraph operator leaned out of the window and broke into the conversation. “Murphy's firing the big eleven for sixteen from Truesdale. You might take that.” “Got a good man to run it?” asked Jim. “Jawn Donohue's on the switch engine,” replied the operator. “He knows the road.” Jim dimly remembered the name Donohue. Somewhat more than a year before his manager had reduced a man of that name for crippling an engine on a flying switch. “He's the best man you could get, Mr. Weeks,” said the agent, and turning, he ran down the platform toward the freight house. Jim called after him:-- “He's got to connect at Manchester with the twelve o'clock for Chicago.” Jawn's dumpy little engine was blowing off on a siding. Jawn was oiling. He was a short man, filling out his wide overalls with an in-'em-to-stay appearance. His beard was brushy, his eyes were lost in a gray tangle of brows and lashes, and he chewed the stem of a cob pipe. “Jawn,” said the agent, excitedly, “get eleven up to the platform quick!” Jawn turned around, lowered the oil-can, and looked at the nervous agent with impassive eyes. “Why?” he said slowly. “You've got to connect with Manchester at twelve o'clock.” Jawn replaced his pipe.