Callahan waved his hand. "I've got to have track there by to-morrow

night."

"I've got to dump a hundred cars of rock in there before we shall have

anything to lay track on; and I've got to pick the rock up all the way

from here to Goose River."

They walked together to the station.

When the night grew too dark for Callahan he had but one higher

thought--Bucks. Bucks was five hundred miles away at McCloud, but he

already had the particulars and was waiting at a key ready to take up

the trouble of his favorite division. Callahan at the wire in Sleepy

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Cat told his story, and Bucks at the other end listened and asked

questions. He listened to every detail of the disaster, to the cold

hard figures of Agnew's estimates--which nothing could alter, jot or

tittle--and to Callahan's despairing question as to how he could

possibly save the unlooked-for avalanche of fruit.

For some time after the returns were in, Bucks was silent; silent so

long that the copper-haired man twisted in his chair, looked vacantly

around the office and chewed a cigar into strings. Then the sounder at

his hand clicked. He recognized Bucks sending in the three words

lightly spelled on his ear and jumped from his seat. Just three words

Bucks had sent and signed off. What galvanized Callahan was that the

words were so simple, so all-covering, and so easy. "Why didn't I

think of that?" groaned Callahan, mentally.

Then he reflected that he was nothing but a redheaded Irishman, anyway,

while Bucks was a genius. It never showed more clearly, Callahan

thought, than when he received the three words, "Send for Glover."




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