Bucks had striven masterfully to drive and not be driven; but the delays were inexorable, and the impending strike threatened to turn the orderly charge into a rout.  The governor had postponed the coup from day to day, waiting upon the leisurely movements of Falkland; and at the end of the ends there remained but three hours of the final day of grace when the telegram came from Falkland with the welcome news that the Overland officials were on their way from Midland City to keep the appointment in Gaston.

Of all this Kent knew nothing, and was anxious in just proportion as the minutes elapsed and the time for the departure of the east-bound express drew near.  For the success of the desperate venture turned upon this:  that the receiver’s special must leave ahead of the passenger train.  With the express blocking the way the difficulties became insurmountable.

Kent was still standing at the trainmen’s wicket when Callahan sent the private car gently up to the trackhead of track eight.  M’Tosh had been telephoning again, and the receiver and his party were on the way to the station.

“I was afraid you’d have to let the express go first,” said Kent, when the train-master came his way again.  “How much time have we?”

“Five minutes more; and they are on the way down—­there they come.”

Kent looked and saw a group of six men making for the nearest exit in the grille.  Then he smote his fist into his palm.

“Damn!” he muttered; “they’ve got the vice-president of the Overland with them!  That’s bad.”

“It’s bad for Mr. Callafield,” growled M’Tosh.  “We’re in too deep now to back down on his account.”

Kent moved nearer and stood in the shadow of the gate-keeper’s box, leaving M’Tosh, who was on the track platform, free to show himself.  From his new point of espial Kent checked off the members of the party.  When Major Guilford left it to come back for a word with M’Tosh, there were five others:  the governor, his private secretary, Hawk, Halkett, the general superintendent, and the Overland’s vice-president.

“All ready, M’Tosh?” said the receiver.

“Ready and waiting, Major,” was the bland reply.

“Who is our engineer?”

“Patrick Callahan.”

“That wild Irishman?  The governor says he’d as soon ride behind the devil.”

“Callahan will get you there,” said the train-master, with deliberate emphasis.  Then he asked a question of his own.  “Is Mr. Callafield going with you?”

“No.  He came down to see us off.  How is the fast mail to-night?”

“She’s just in—­an hour and thirty-five minutes late.”

The major swore pathetically.  He was of the generation of railway officials, happily fast passing, which cursed and swore itself into authority.

“That’s another five hundred dollars’ forfeit to the Post-office Department!  Who’s taking it west?”