"Young man," said he, "just you listen to me for about two minutes. Those fellows do control this road, but they didn’t operate it. In spite of Rollins’s blessed letters, you can’t absolutely say they operate it. But what they do operate, when they want to, are the politics of this city, and if they tell Tammany, yes, or me, to hold off and let an election go the way they want it, why, hold off Tammany or anybody else has to. Nobody could win if they said ’No.’ Now, then"—Leighton punctuated his words with the rise and fall of an index finger—"they’re not actually morally responsible for the conduct of the M. & N., but they’ll know the publication of these letters would make the public think they were. They’ll know the publication would wreck the road they’re still interested in, smash all their other stocks and depreciate all their other interests, start a panic that might swamp even them, and maybe begin a public row that would send them close to jail, on general principles, legal evidence or no legal evidence. To stop that, they’d be willing to have me elected, which they weren’t yet quite certain about being to-day. I’ll go to them quietly, and then I’ll surrender these letters, when they’ve kept their part of the bargain I’ll make. And don’t you worry about loss of life. That engineer was probably green or drunk, or the signal man got rattled. You’ll see the coroner’s jury says so. But, anyhow, once I’m safely re-elected, I’ll take care the M. & N. is better regulated than it has been. There’s no use in a row: a little moral suasion will do the trick." He tossed back, and clasped his hands behind his head. The explanation had been too long: it was long enough to allow Luke to master the shock of what it implied. He saw his last illusions concerning Leighton fall under the impact of Leighton’s own words. He was aghast. He was ashamed of his master; he was ashamed of himself for ever having served such a master. But he was not crushed. As his chief proceeded, Luke’s soul rose through indignation to red revolt. By the time that Leighton ceased speaking, Luke, except for two spots of crimson on his cheeks, was captain of his rage. He leaned against the desk-side indolently, his eyelids lowered, and when he replied it was with an indifferent drawl. "It doesn’t much matter whether the engineer was drunk or the signal man rattled," he said: "the rail flattened, and the bridge fell. The rail was drunk and the bridge was rattled." Leighton shook himself peevishly. "You’re trying to be humorous," he said. "No; oh, no," said Luke gently. "What I’m getting at is, it seems to me the men who directly controlled this road were directly responsible for its operation. I mean that the men who authorized that letter, and insisted on the policy it lays down, are guilty. It strikes me they ought to be either reformed or punished."