“I go east, special, at twelve-ten, Eckstein, as Mr. MacMorrogh has probably told you.  I have a luncheon appointment at twelve with Mr. Ford.  Meet him when he comes, and make my excuses—­without telling him anything he ought not to know.  If you can take my place as his host, do so; but in any event, keep him from finding out where we have gone until we are well on the way.  That’s all.”

This was why Ford, walking the few blocks from his hotel at noon to keep his engagement with North, found the general manager’s private office closed, and a suave, soft-spoken young man with a foreign east of countenance waiting to make his superior’s excuses.

“Mr. North was called out of town quite unexpectedly on a wire,” was the private secretary’s explanation.  “He tried to telephone you at the Brown, but the operator couldn’t find you.  He left me to explain, and I’ve been wondering if you’d let me take his place as your host, Mr. Ford.”

Now Ford’s attitude toward his opponents was, by reason of his gifts, openly belligerent; wherefore he fought against it and tried to be as other men are.

“I am sure Mr. North is quite excusable, and it is good-natured in you to stand in the breach, Mr. Eckstein,” he said.  “Of course, I’ll be glad to go with you.”

They went to Tortoni’s, and to a private room; and the luncheon was an epicurean triumph.  Eckstein talked well, and was evidently a young man of parts.  Not until the cigars were lighted did he suffer the table-talk to come down to the railroad practicalities; and even then he merely followed Ford’s lead.

“Oh, yes; we have made arrangements to give you a clear deck in the Denver yards for your material and supplies,” he said, in answer to a question of Ford’s about side-track room and yard facilities at the point which would have to serve as his base.  “Following your orders, we have been forwarding all that your Plug Mountain rolling stock could handle, but there is considerable more of it side-tracked here.  After the MacMorrogh grading outfit has gone to the front, we shall have more room, however.”

“The MacMorrogh outfit?” queried Ford.  “Do they store it in our yards?”

“Oh, no.  They have a pretty complete railroad yard of their own at their headquarters in Pueblo.  But they have three train-loads of tools and machinery here now, waiting for your orders to send them to the front.”

Ford weighed the possibilities thoughtfully and concluded that nothing could be lost by a frank declaration of principles.

“They have given you folks a wrong impression, Mr. Eckstein,” he said mildly.  “The contract for the grading on the Western Extension is not yet awarded; and if I can compass it, the MacMorrogh Brothers’ bid will be thrown out.”

The private secretary tried to look mystified, with just the proper touch of a subordinate’s embarrassment.

“I’m only a clerk, Mr. Ford,” he said, “and, of course, I’m not supposed to know more than I see and hear in the regular way of business.  But I understood that the MacMorroghs were in the saddle; that they were only waiting for you to provide track-room at Saint’s Rest for their tool cars and outfit.”