In the meantime Major James Guilford, somewhile president of the Apache National Bank of Gaston, and antecedent to that the frowning autocrat of a twenty-five-mile logging road in the North Carolina mountains, had given bond in some sort and had taken possession of the company’s property and of the offices in the Quintard Building.

His first official act as receiver was to ask for the resignations of a dozen heads of departments, beginning with the general manager and pausing for the moment with the supervisor of track.  That done, he filled the vacancies with political troughsmen; and with these as assistant decapitators the major passed rapidly down the line, striking off heads in daily batches until the over-flow of the Bucks political following was provided for on the railroad’s pay-rolls to the wife’s cousin’s nephew.

This was the work of the first few administrative days or weeks, and while it was going on, the business attitude of the road remained unchanged.  But once seated firmly in the saddle, with his awkward squad well in hand, the major proceeded to throw a bomb of consternation into the camp of his competitors.

Kent was dining with Ormsby in the grill-room of the Camelot Club when the waiter brought in the evening edition of the Argus, whose railroad reporter had heard the preliminary fizzing of the bomb fuse.  The story was set out on the first page, first column, with appropriate headlines.

  WAR TO THE KNIFE AND THE KNIFE
  TO THE HILT!

  TRANS-WESTERN CUTS COMMODITY RATE.

  Great Excitement in Railroad Circles. 
  Receiver Guilford’s Hold-up.

Kent ran his eye rapidly down the column and passed the paper across to Ormsby.

“I told you so,” he said.  “They didn’t find the road insolvent, but they are going to make it so in the shortest possible order.  A rate war will do it quicker than anything else on earth.”

Ormsby thrust out his jaw.

“Have we got to stand by and see ’em do it?”

“The man from Massachusetts says yes, and he knows, or thinks he does.  He has been here two weeks now, and he has nosed out for himself all the dead-walls.  We can’t appeal, because there is no decision to appeal from.  We can’t take it out of the lower court until it is finished in the lower court.  We can’t enjoin an officer of the court; and there is no authority in the State that will set aside Judge MacFarlane’s order when that order was made under technically legal conditions.”

“You could have told him all that in the first five minutes,” said Ormsby.

“I did tell him, and was mildly sat upon.  To-day he came around and gave me back my opinion, clause for clause, as his own.  But I have no kick coming.  Somebody will have to be here to fight the battle to a finish when the judge returns, and our expert will advise the Bostonians to retain me.”

“Does he stay?” Ormsby asked.