The Short Line War | Page 7

polished table in Mr.
McNally's new office and anxiously discussed ways and means. The
scrappy memoranda and what appeared to be problems in addition and
subtraction littered about, made it appear that some ground had been
pretty thoroughly gone over. There was a momentary lull in the
conversation, and the silence was broken only by the tapping of Mr.
Wing's pencil as he balanced it between his fingers and let the point
rebound on the top of the table. There really seemed to be nothing to
say. The alliance between C. & S.C. and Thompson's faction of the M.
& T. directors had been arranged some days before. They had met
to-day to see how they stood. McNally told what he had done, and it
was not so much as they had hoped he would be able to do. The
combination was not yet strong enough to take the field. For the past
twenty minutes Thompson had been leaning over the table making
suggestions in his thick voice, and McNally had sat back and quietly
annihilated them by demonstrating their impracticability, or by stating
that they had been unsuccessfully tried.
Beyond asking one or two incisive questions of McNally, Porter had
said nothing, but had stared straight out of the window. For the past ten
minutes he had been waiting for Thompson to run down. It was he who
broke the silence.
"We're stuck fast"--he was speaking very slowly--"unless we can get
control of that Tillman City stock."
McNally shook his head doubtfully. "I'm afraid it's no good," he said.
"Look what we've offered them already. They think the stock is going
to go on booming clear up to the sky, and they won't sell. We couldn't
get it at par."
Porter's chair shot back suddenly. He walked over to the empty
fireplace, the other men watching him curiously. He spread his hands
behind him mechanically as if to warm them. Then he said:--

"I think we could get it if we were to offer par."
"Offer par!" thundered Thompson. "We could get Jim Weeks's holdings
by paying par."
Porter smiled indulgently. "I didn't say we'd pay par for anything. But I
think if Mr. McNally were to sign a contract to pay par the day after the
M. and T. election, that he could vote the stock on election day."
McNally's plump hand came down softly on the table. "Good!" he said
under his breath.
But Mr. Thompson failed to understand. "But the contract?" he said.
"Such a contract would be a little less valuable than that waste paper,"
Porter replied politely, indicating the crumpled sheets on the table.
Then he turned to McNally and asked, "How many men will it take to
swing it?"
"Three, if we get the right ones. Yes, I know the men we want. I can get
them all right," he added, in response to the unspoken question. "It will
need a little--oil, though, for the wheels."
"I suppose so," said Porter, dryly. "I think you'd better get at it right
away. It's two o'clock now. The two-thirty express will get you to
Manchester so that you can reach Tillman about seven-thirty. It doesn't
pay to waste any time when you're trying to get ahead of Jim Weeks.
He moves quick. Have you got money enough?"
McNally nodded.
Thompson had come to the surface again. He was breathing thickly,
and his high, bald forehead was damp with perspiration. "That's
bribery," he said, "and it's--dangerous."
"I'm afraid that can't be helped, Mr. Thompson," said Porter. "It's neck
or nothing. We've got to have that Tillman City stock."
There were but four people in the room when he began speaking. There

were five when he finished, for Harvey West had grown tired of
waiting. He bowed politely.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Ah! Mr. Porter. How do you do? I beg
your pardon for intruding."
Porter recovered first. "No intrusion, Mr. West. We had just finished
our business."
McNally took the cue quickly.
"Mr. West?" he said interrogatively.
Harvey bowed.
"I will be at your service in a moment. Excuse me."
Wing and Thompson had already taken the hint, and were moving
toward the door. Porter hung back, conversing in low tones with
McNally. Then he bowed to West and followed the others. McNally
gathered up the papers on the table, folded them, and put them in his
pocket.
"Please sit down, Mr. West. What can I do for you? Wait a moment,
though. Won't you smoke?" He held out his cigar case to Harvey, who
took one gladly. Lighting it would give him a moment more to think,
and thinking was necessary, for he didn't know what McNally could do
for him. But McNally seemed to be doing his best to help him out.
"Don't you think it very