Bryce Cardigan came over, and at sight of him Pennington choked with fury.  “You—­you—­” he sputtered, unable to say more.

“I’m the N.C.O.,” Bryce replied.  “Nice little fiction that of yours about the switch-engine being laid up in the shops and the Laurel Creek bridge being unsafe for this big mogul.”  He looked Pennington over with frank admiration.  “You’re certainly on the job, Colonel.  I’ll say that much for you.  The man who plans to defeat you must jump far and fast, or his tail will be trod on.”

“You’ve stolen my engine,” Pennington almost screamed.  “I’ll have the law on you for grand larceny.”

“Tut-tut!  You don’t know who stole your engine.  For all you know, your own engine-crew may have run it down here.”

“I’ll attend to you, sir,” Pennington replied, and he turned to enter Mayor Poundstone’s little flivver.

“Not to-night, at least,” Bryce retorted gently.  “Having gone this far, I would be a poor general to permit you to escape now with the news of your discovery.  You’d be down here in an hour with a couple of hundred members of your mill-crew and give us the rush.  You will oblige me, Colonel Pennington, by remaining exactly where you are until I give you permission to depart.”

“And if I refuse—­”

“Then I shall manhandle you, truss you up like a fowl in the tonneau of your car, and gag you.”

To Bryce’s infinite surprise the Colonel smiled.  “Oh, very well!” he replied.  “I guess you’ve got the bulge on me, young man.  Do you mind if I sit in the warm cab of my own engine?  I came away in such a hurry I quite forgot my overcoat.”

“Not at all.  I’ll sit up there and keep you company.”

Half an hour passed.  An automobile came slowly up Water Street and paused half a block away, evidently reconnoitering the situation.  Instantly the Colonel thrust his head out the cab window.

“Sexton!” he shouted.  “Cardigan’s cutting in a crossing.  He’s holding me here against my will.  Get the mill-crew together and phone for Rondeau and his woods-crew.  Send the switch-engine and a couple of flats up for them.  Phone Poundstone.  Tell him to have the chief of police—­”

Bryce Cardigan’s great hand closed over the Colonel’s neck, while down Water Street a dark streak that was Buck Ogilvy sped toward the automobile, intending to climb in and make Pennington’s manager a prisoner also.  He was too late, however.  Sexton swung his car and departed at full speed down Water Street, leaving the disappointed Buck to return panting to the scene of operations.

Bryce Cardigan released his hold on Pennington’s neck.  “You win, Colonel,” he announced.  “No good can come of holding you here any longer.  Into your car and on your way.”

“Thank you, young man,” the Colonel answered, and there was a metallic ring in his voice.  He looked at his watch in the glare of a torch.  “Plenty of time,” he murmured.  “Curfew shall not ring to-night.”  Quite deliberately he climbed into the Mayor’s late source of woe and breezed away.