“He isn’t?” snorted Garton.  “That’s all you know about it!  How do we get all of our implements, our supplies, all of our men?  They come to us by rail, don’t they?  And that means they come to us over the P. C. & W., doesn’t it?  And the P. C. & W. is scared out of its life, praying every day to its little gods for Crawford’s failure.  What happens?  We get delayed shipments, we wait for our stuff, and it lies sidetracked somewhere; we get our men stolen from us before they ever get to Bolton, and shunted off to work for the opposition!  There are a hundred ways in which Swinnerton and the bigger men in with him can slip their knife into us every day of the week.  And they are not missing very many bets, either.  Oh, Gray’s all right; he’s square enough and willing enough to stand by his word.  But he can’t do everything.  It takes time to get matters up to him, and it takes time for him to adjust them.  And right now he’s in San Francisco attending a railroad conference, and he’ll be there fifteen days, I suppose.  What sort of service do you suppose we get in the mean time?  You get that idea out of your head that Swinnerton isn’t doing anything actively to retard us.  He’s doing everything he can think of, and I told you at the jump that the man has brains.”

As well as a man could understand it without actually going over the ground, Conniston learned that afternoon all that Bat Truxton’s assistant could tell him.  He learned, roughly, of course, how much had been done already, what remained to be done first, what could be allowed to wait until more men came to swell the forces now at work, what chief natural difficulties and obstacles lay across the path of the great venture.

Little Tommy Garton’s enthusiasm was so keen a thing, so spontaneous, so whole-souled, that long before time came for the noon meal Conniston felt his own blood pounding and clamoring for action.  Swiftly he was granted the first true glimpse which had ever come to him of the real nature of work.  Such work as he was now about to engage in was so infused with the elements of hazard, of risk, of uncertainty, of opposition, that it was shot through with a deep, stern fascination.  It was not drudgery, and almost until now he had looked upon all work as that.  It was a great game, the greatest game in the world.  He already began to look forward to to-morrow, when he was to leave the office and go out upon the field of action with Bat Truxton with an eagerness such as he had felt in the old college days on the eve of the big Thanksgiving football game.  Something of the spirit which had made old William Conniston the dynamic, forceful man of business which he had always been, and which had never before manifested itself in old Conniston’s son, suddenly awoke and shook itself, active, eager, the fighting spirit of a fighting man.

At noon Billy Jordan pushed back his chair and got to his feet, stretching his arms high over his head.