to keep cutting its dividends!  Its common stock is down to ten.  It is cutting expenses on every hand, and of course it’s turning out a rotten product.  And now along comes Wyman, the one man in Wall Street who dares to shake his fist at old Dan Waterman; and he gives the newspapers all the facts about the bad steel rails that are causing smash-ups on his roads; and he turns all his contracts over to the Mississippi Steel Company, which is under-selling the Trust.  The company is swamped with orders, and its plants are running day and night.  And then along comes a guileless young fool with a little dinky railroad which he wants to run into the Company’s back door-yard; and he takes the proposition to Jim Hegan!”

The Major arrived at his climax in a state of suppressed emotion, which culminated in a chuckle, which shook his rubicund visage and brought a series of twitches to his aching toe.  As for Montague, he was duly humbled.

“What would you do now?” he asked, after a pause.

“I don’t see that there’s anything to do,” said the Major, “except to hold on tight to your stock.  Perhaps if you go on talking out loud about your extension, some of the Steel people will buy you out at your own price.”

“I gave them a scare, anyhow,” said Montague, laughing.

“I can wager one thing,” said the other.  “There has been a fine shaking up in somebody’s office down town!  There’s a man who comes here every night, who’s probably heard of it.  That’s Will Roberts.”

And the Major looked about the dining-room.  “Here he comes now,” he said.

At the farther end of the room there had entered a tall, dark-haired man, with a keen expression and a brisk step.  “Roberts the Silent,” said the Major.  “Let’s have a try at him.”  And as the man passed near, he hailed him.  “Hello!  Roberts, where are you going?  Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Allan Montague.”

The man looked at Montague.  “Good evening, sir,” he said.  “How are you, Venable?”

“Couldn’t be worse, thank you,” said the Major.  “How are things with you on the Street?”

“Dull, very dull,” said Roberts, as he passed on.  “Matters look bad, I’m afraid.  Too many people making money rapidly.”

The Major chuckled.  “A fine sentiment,” he said, when Roberts had passed out of hearing—­“from a man who has made sixty millions in the last ten years!”

“It did not appear that he had ever heard of me,” said Montague.

“Oh, trust him for that!” said the Major.  “He might have been planning to have your throat cut to-night, but you wouldn’t have seen him turn an eyelid.  He is that sort; he’s made of steel himself, I believe.”

He paused, and then went on, in a reminiscent mood, “You’ve read of the great strike, I suppose?  It was Roberts put that job through.  He made himself the worst-hated man in the country—­Gad! how the newspapers and the politicians used to rage at him!  But he stood his ground—­he would win that strike or die in the attempt.  And he very nearly did both, you know.  An Anarchist came to his office and shot him twice; but he got the fellow down and nearly choked the life out of him, and he ran the strike on his sick-bed, and two weeks later he was back in his office again.”