I don't know which of us gasped louder, me or George Wesley. Got him in the short ribs, that proposition did. But, say, he's a game old sport, even if the papers are callin' him everything from highway robber to yellow dog. He shrugs his shoulders and bows polite.

"As you choose, Ellins," says he.

Maybe he thinks it's a bluff; but it's nothing like that.

"Boy," says Old Hickory, handin' back the envelope, "go find Mr. Percey J. Sturgis, explain to him that the president of the P., B. & R. is bound under a personal agreement not to parallel any lines in which the Corrugated holds a one-third interest. Tell him I demand that he quit on this Palisades route. If he won't, offer to buy his blasted charter. Bid up to one hundred thousand, then 'phone me. Got all that?"

"I could say it backwards," says I. "Shake the club first; then wave the kale at him. Do I take a flyin' start?"

"Go now," says Old Hickory. "We will wait here until five. If he wants to know who you are, tell him you're my office boy."

Wa'n't that rubbin' in the salt, though? But it ain't safe to stir up Hickory Ellins unless you got him tied to a post, and even then you want to use a long stick. As I sails out and grabs my new fall derby off the peg Piddie asks breathless:

"What's the matter now, and where are you off to?"

"Outside business for the boss," says I. "Buyin' up a railroad for him, that's all."

I left him purple in the face, dashes across to the Subway, and inside of fifteen minutes I'm listenin' fidgety while a private secretary explains how Mr. Sturgis is just leavin' town on important business and can't possibly see me today.

"Deah-uh me!" says I. "How distressin'! Say, you watch me flag him on the jump."

"But I've just told you," insists the secretary, "that Mr. Sturgis cannot----"

"Ah, mooshwaw!" says I. "This is a case of must--see? If you put me out I'll lay for him on the way to the elevator."

Course with some parties that might be a risky tackle; but anyone with a front name like Percey I'm takin' a chance on. Percey! Listens like one of the silky-haired kind that wears heliotrope silk socks, don't it? But, say, what finally shows up is a wide, heavy built gent with a big, homespun sort of face, crispy brown hair a little long over the ears, and the steadiest pair of bright brown eyes I ever saw. Nothing fancy or frail about Percey J. Sturgis. He's solid and substantial, from his wide-soled No. 10's up to the crown of his seven three-quarter hat. He has a raincoat thrown careless over one arm, and he's smokin'

a cigar as big and black as any of Old Hickory's.

"Well, what is it, Son?" says he in one of them deep barytones that you feel all the way through to your backbone.

And this is what I've been sent out either to scare off or buy up!

Still, you can't die but once.

"I'm from Mr. Ellins of the Corrugated Trust," says I.

"Ah!" says he, smilin' easy.

Well, considerin' how my knees was wabblin', I expect I put the proposition over fairly strong.

"You may tell Mr. Ellins for me," says he, "that I don't intend to quit."

"Then it's a case of buy," says I. "What's the charter worth, spot cash?"

"Sorry," says he, "but I'm too busy to talk about that just now. I'm just starting for North Jersey."

"Suppose I trail along a ways then?" says I. "Mr. Ellins is waitin'

for an answer."

"Is he?" says Percey J. "Then come, if you wish." And what does he do but tow me down to a big tourin' car and wave me into one of the back seats with him. Listens quiet to all I've got to say too, while we're tearin' uptown, noddin' his head now and then, with them wide-set brown eyes of his watchin' me amused and curious. But the scare I'm tryin'

to throw into him don't seem to take effect at all.

"Let's see," says he, as we rolls onto the Fort Lee ferry, "just what is your official position with the Corrugated?"

I'd planned to shoot it at him bold and crushin'. But somehow it don't happen that way.

"Head office boy," says I, blushin' apologizin'; "but Mr. Ellins sent me out himself."

"Indeed?" says he. "Another of his original ideas. A brilliant man, Mr. Ellins."

"He's some stayer in a sc.r.a.p, believe me!" says I. "And he's got the harpoon out for this Palisades road."

"So have a good many others," says Mr. Sturgis, chucklin'. "In fact, I don't mind admitting that I am as near to being beaten on this enterprise as I've ever been on anything in any life. But if I am beaten, it will not be by Mr. Ellins. It will be by a hard-headed old Scotch farmer who owns sixty acres of scrubby land which I must cross in order to complete my right of way. He won't sell a foot. I've been trying for six months to get in touch with him; but he's as stubborn as a cedar stump. And if I don't run a car over rails before next June my charter lapses. So I'm going up now to try a personal interview. If I fail, my charter isn't worth a postage stamp. But, win or lose, it isn't for sale to Hickory Ellins."

He wa'n't ugly about it. He just states the case calm and conversational; but somehow you was dead sure he meant it.

"All right," says I. "Then maybe when I see how you come out I'll have something definite to report."

"You should," says he.

That's where we dropped the subject. It's some swell ride we had up along the top of the Palisades, and on and on until we're well across the State line into New York. Along about four-thirty he says we're most there. We was rollin' through a jay four corners, where the postoffice occupies one window of the gen'ral store, with the Masonic Lodge overhead, when alongside the road we comes across a little tow-headed girl, maybe eight or nine, pawin' around in the gra.s.s and sobbin' doleful.

"Hold up, Martin," sings out Mr. Sturgis to the chauffeur, and Martin jams on his emergency so the brake drums squeal.

What do you guess? Why Percey J. climbs out, asks the kid gentle what all the woe is about, and discovers that she's lost a whole nickel that Daddy has given her to buy lolly-pops with on account of its bein' her birthday.

"Now that's too bad, isn't it, little one?" says Mr. Sturgis. "But I guess we can fix that. Come on. Martin, take us back to the store."

Took out his handkerchief, Percey did, and swabbed off the tear stains, all the while talkin' low and soothin' to the kid, until he got her calmed down. And when they came out of the store she was carryin' a pound box of choc'late creams tied up flossy with a pink ribbon. With her eyes bugged and so tickled she can't say a word, she lets go of his hand and dashes back up the road, most likely bent on showin' the folks at home the results of the miracle that's happened to her.

That's the kind of a guy Percey J. Sturgis is, even when he has worries of his own. You'd most thought he was due for a run of luck after a kind act like that. But someone must have had their fingers crossed; for as Martin backs up to turn around he connects a rear tire with a broken ginger ale bottle and--s-s-s-sh! out goes eighty-five pounds'

pressure to the square inch. No remark from Mr. Sturgis. He lights a fresh cigar and for twenty-five minutes by the dash clock Martin is busy shiftin' that husky shoe.

So we're some behind schedule when we pulls up under the horse chestnut trees a quarter of a mile beyond in front of a barny, weather-beaten old farmhouse where there's a sour-faced, square-jawed old pirate sittin' in a home made barrel chair smokin' his pipe and scowlin'

gloomy at the world in gen'ral. It's Ross himself. Percey J. don't waste any hot air tryin' to melt him. He tells the old guy plain and simple who he is and what he's after.

"Dinna talk to me, Mon," says Ross. "I'm no sellin' the farm."

"May I ask your reasons?" says Mr. Sturgis.

Ross frowns at him a minute without sayin' a word. Then he pries the stubby pipe out from the bristly whiskers and points a crooked finger toward a little bunch of old apple trees on a low knoll.

"Yon's my reason, Mon," says he solemn. "Yon wee white stone. Three bairns and the good wife lay under it. I'm no sae youthful mysel'.

And when it's time for me to go I'd be sleepin' peaceful, with none o'

your rattlin' trolley cars comin' near. That's why, Mon."

"Thank you, Mr. Ross," says Percey J. "I can appreciate your sentiments. However, our line would run through the opposite side of your farm, away over there. All we ask is a fifty-foot strip across your----"

"You canna have it," says Ross decided, insertin' the pipe once more.