Now, all they had worked for, lived for, longed for, and enjoyed together had been taken away, without warning, without reason, and given to another!  Martin groaned with the thought of it.  Three hours later he kissed his Jewel good-bye, roaring at her because a tear stood in each eye—­to cover the fact that tears were in his own.  That night, still grim, still white, he faced Lemuel C. Barstow, former vice-president and general manager of the O.R.& T. in his hotel room in St. Louis.  That person spoke with biting directness.

“Politics, Martin,” came his announcement.  “They shelved me because I wouldn’t play the tricks of a clique that got into power before I could stop ’em.  You were my pet appointee, so you went, too.  It wasn’t because we weren’t efficient.  They lifted the pin on me, and that meant you.  So here we are.  But”—­and a fist banged on the table—­“they’re going to pay for it!  This new crowd knows as much about railroading as a baby does about chess.  I tried to tell that to the men with the money.  They wouldn’t listen.  So I went to men who could hear, the Ozark Central.  I’m to be the new president of that road.”

“That wooden axle outfit?” Martin squinted.  “Sure, Mr. Barstow, I’m not knockin’ the new deal, or——­”

“Never mind that.”  Lemuel C. Barstow smiled genially.  “That’s where your part of the job comes in.  That’s why I need you.  But we’ll let that go for the present.  Go back to Montgomery City, turn over the reins to this new fish, who doesn’t know an air brake from a boiler tube, and keep quiet until I send for you.”

Then ensued two weeks of nothing to do but wait.  Nothing to do but to pace the floor like some belligerent, red-faced caged animal, daring his Jewel to feel hurt because sneering remarks had been made about her husband’s downfall.  Two weeks—­then came the summons.

“Careful now, Martin!  No wild throws, remember!” Lemuel Barstow was giving the final instructions.  “We’ve got a big job ahead.  I’ve brought you down here because you have the faculty of making men think they hate you—­then going out and working their heads off for you, because well, to be frank, you’re the biggest, blunderingest, hardest-working blusterer that I ever saw—­and you’re the only man who can pull me through.  This road’s in rotten shape, especially as concerns the roadbed.  The steel and ties are all right, but the ballast is rotten.  You’ve got to make it the best in Missouri, and you’ve got only eight months to do it in.  So tear loose.  Your job’s that of special superintendent, with no strings on it.  Pay no attention to any one but me.  If you need equipment, buy it and tell the purchasing agent to go to the hot place.  By March 1st, and no later, I want the track from St. Louis to Kansas City to be as smooth as a ballroom floor.”

“And why the rush?”

“Just this:  The O.R.& T. treated me like a dirty dog.  I’m going to make ’em pay for it; I’m after my pound of flesh now!  There’s just one thing that road prizes above all else—­it’s St. Louis-Kansas City mail contracts.  The award comes up again in March.  The system that can make the fastest time in the government speed trials gets the plum.  Understand?”