Illis called his valet and instructed him to rouse his secretary and ring for some cable blanks.

“I think I’ll cable, too,” Murray told him.  “I have some ‘boys’ up there who are working in the dark with their teeth shut.  They’re waiting for the crash, and they’d like to hear the good news.”

His fingers shook as he scrawled the name of Doctor Gray, but his eyes were bright and youth was singing in his heart once more.

“Now let’s get down to business,” said Mr. Illis.  “We’ll have to talk fast.”

It was growing light in the east when O’Neil returned to the Holland House; but he felt no fatigue, and he laughed from the pure joy of living, for his dream seemed coming true.

XIX

MISS APPLETON MAKES A SACRIFICE

Tom Slater came puffing up the hill to the Appleton bungalow, plumped himself into a chair, and sighed deeply.

“What’s the matter?  Are you played out?” asked Eliza.

“No.  I’m feeling like a colt.”

“Any news from Omar Khayyam?”

“Not a word.”

Eliza’s brows drew together in a worried frown, for none of Murray’s “boys” had awaited tidings from him with greater anxiety than she.

It had been a trying month for them all.  Dr. Gray, upon whom the heaviest responsibility rested, had aged visibly under the strain; Parker and Mellen and McKay had likewise become worn and grave as the days passed and they saw disaster approaching.  Even Dan was blue; and Sheldon, the light-hearted, had begun to lose interest in his commissary duties.

After the storm at Kyak there had been a period of fierce rejoicing, which had ended abruptly with the receipt of O’Neil’s curt cablegram announcing the attitude of the Trust.  Gloom had succeeded the first surprise, deepening to hopeless despondency through the days that followed.  Oddly enough, Slater had been the only one to bear up; under adversity he blossomed into a peculiar and almost offensive cheerfulness.  It was characteristic of his crooked temperament that misfortune awoke in him a lofty and unshakable optimism.

“You’re great on nicknames, ain’t you?” he said to Eliza, regarding her with his never-failing curiosity.  “Who’s this Homer Keim you’re always talking about?”

“He isn’t any more:  he was.  He was a cheerful old Persian poet.”

“I thought he was Dutch, from the name.  Well!  Murray’s cheerful too.  Him and me are alike in that.  I’ll bet he isn’t worrying half so much as Doc and the others.”

“You think he’ll make good?” “He never fails.”

“But—­we can’t hold on much longer.  Dan says that some of the men are getting uneasy and want their money.”

Tom nodded.  “The men are all right—­Doc has kept them paid up; it’s the shift bosses.  I say let ’em quit.”

“Has it gone as far as that?”

“Somebody keeps spreading the story that we’re busted and that Murray has skipped out.  More of Gordon’s work, I s’pose.  Some of the sore-heads are coming in this evening to demand their wages.”