B HENRY RUSSELL MILLER - CHAPTER XXVi—Continued. He became conscious of Simon's cu- aous gaze and turned sharply on him. “01d man, you seem to know a sur prising lot about making steel. Look down the valley—there, on those hills. Po you eee anything that isn’t there?” Simon looked and nodded. “l've be'n seein’ it more'n forty years.” Henley stared. “Humph! An epl demic. There's magic in these hills.” His thoughtful glance swept them once mora. “But d4——d4 alluring magic.” ® . * ® * The gentle, sometimes plaintive voice of the preacher had no power to distract from thought. His wistful message could not reach the man for whom it had been prepared in the &ope that it would come to him with @ealing In its wings. The benediction had been sald. Mark went quietly from his rear pew eut of the church and limped slowly along the dusty, weed-flanked plke un- til he came to a minor crest. There fe dropped on the roadside and turned his eyes to the valley. The murmurous quied of noonday was about him, Up the rise, village bound, creaked a battered old topbuggy, bearing a passenger whose grizzled beard and ned face, too, showed the marks of time's battering. The buggy drew up beside him, “Did he find yout?” “Who ™ The doctor chuckled. “Guess he didn’t, or you wouldn't have to ask. He's a vigorous party that doesn't understand the joy of talk. I took him from Number Four to your place.” “Short and stout—" “And not much for looks,” Hedges soncluded the portrait, “That's him. Has a way with him, though. And the habit of taking what he wants, I guess, without waiting.” “Sunday traffic,” the doctor drawled, “ls getting pretty heavy. Number Four brought a woman, too. Expect- fing any baggage of that kind?” Mark €hook his head absently. “No? That's too bad. She's a new kind for Bethel—a right pleasant kind, too, though I'm not sure how our women'd take her.” The doctor “There's Magic in These Hills” grinned, but his pleasantry won no answering smile from Mark. “Well, | must be moseying along. Better ride into town. The vigorous party’ll be near to apoplexy by now, waiting for you.” Mark got in and the buggy resumed its creaking journey The doctor rambled on. “A good many new sorts come to Bethel nowadays. Good thing for ue, too—gives us a peep Into the world. We've you to thank for that. 1 came across a queer one yesterday, | was up on the Hill—I go there sometimes even #ince the fire. [I found him eamped out in the old tool shed-—about the only thing the fire missed. He's a half-starved little rat, with a strag gly brown beard and a club foot. | asked him how he got thers and he didn’t seem to know. Sald he'd just walked and walked and walked till he found the shed. | wanted to bring him back to town, but he wouldn't come. His mind's more than half gone, I should judge. You'd better send some one out to look after him.” “1 will.” “And he says,” the doctor concluded hia heralding of fate, “his name 1s Pe- ter Anderson.” CHAPTER XXVIiL Cities Unbulit. Henley was pleased to be facetious. “The great Utoplan—in his modest eottage——living in democratic simplio- ity among his village neighbors, Very pretty! 1 suppose you do the chores, too.” “Sometimes—what we have” theatrics! don't you think?" Auhor of "THE MAN HIGHER UP.” “HIS RISE TO POWER,” Etc. “Not conspicuously so. was here, and very well you know. hero.” “Humph!* grunted Henley, still a skeptic. “What,” Mark asked, “did you come here for?” Henley grunted again. “Cordial, 1 must say! I came to restore your sanity.” He rose, mopping his red face with a silk handkerchief. “Take me out of this sun and I'll begin. 1 hear you're pretty far gone.” Mark led him into a cool officellke room pleasant enough--and made him comfortable with a cigar and a chair by a window from which a view of the valley was to be had. “Not sybaritic,” Henley grudgingly admitted, “but good enough for a man —who has no women. Now tell me what you're trying to do here.” And Mark began, simply, without enthusiasm or sentimentalizing, to set forth his idea. The explanation came to an end. Mark awaited his auditor's comment “Of course, you know,” Henley sald. with an easiness that was outward only, “you won't put it through.” “I do not know that,” Mark an swered quietly. “This valley Is well situated with respect to the market Ite transportation facilities are good Our fuel 1s here, and 1 can get ore here cheaper than Quinby or Mae Gregor. I can make steel cheaper than anybody in America, and there's no plant of its size that can equal mine in capacity. In ten years, with a fair field" “With a fair field Exactly!” “You mean I won't have it?” “You won't have it.” “Why? “For one thing-—profits.” “I'l make money here.” The place it served my purpose I don't need much room, I'm not a Wall street “It isn't a question of your profits | nor of profits alone, but the size of profits, No,” Henley shook his head | vigorously, “you can’t have it I'm | here to tell you that” “Well? | “I have no objection to your safety | appliances. They're practical. They'll | save twice their cost in damages ev | ery year." “That's obvious.” i “I'll agree to the bathe. If the men | want to clean up after work-—why, i regard bathing as a | habit” ! Murk smiled. grateful” “I'm not joking” him sternly. “I'll Yery proper “The man will Henley reminded go as far as to | I'u like to see It tried | out.” “Yes?” “Your company stores, company gar- and company homes are well They can be made profitable properly handled. jut your profit arm of his chalr to emphasize each word—"and you can't have It I wouldn't care If you gave them only | a nominal share, It would be useful-— at first-—to get good men up here. Aft erward you could cut it out. But why, in God's name, give them half? “Because I'll need the other half for some things I'm planning.” “I'm not joking,” Henley repeated. “Why give them half?” “Oh, that's an approximation. It | seems to me a pretty falr division of | the spoils. | don’t ineist on its accu- racy. However, that's not the point” Mark straightened up fu his seat by the desk, facing Henley squarely. “Have you forgotten that my money and mine only is invested in this plant? [I can quote good authority, yourself, that a man ought to be al lowed to run his own business to suit himself.” “As long as he hurts no one else” Mark smiled again at that. “You sald you weren't joking. 1 suppose you aren't. That's the joke of It. How- ever, the point is, you forbid me to conduct my own business in my own way. And your authority 7 “The power,” answered Henley qui etly, “to smash you-—and the will We've got labor where we want it in this business and we propose to keep it there. What you pmypose would be a dangerous precedent. If we let you succeed, we'd have the men all over the country yammeriug for the same freak conditions. Therefore, we won't let you succeed” “l see. And you?™ “1? 1 made you--have you forgot: ten that?—and I'm responsible for you. I helped to put labor where it Is, at some risk to mysell, and I don't pro pose to have a man of my own mak: ing undo the biggest thing I've ever done. Therefore, I won't let you sue coed.” “You are quite sure you can do it— smash me?” “Truitt, every steel company in the country will make it its business to put you out,” “And you won't stand aside and let me fight it out with the rest of them?" “No.” Henley seemed astonished at the question. “Certainly not. What did you expect? “I had hoped,” Mark answered slowly, “that vou'd stay out of it. | realize 1 had no reason to hope that.” Henley stirred restlessly, turned to look out upon the valley, upon the city that had not yet arisen. An uneasy qualm moved his heart, continued with a sharpness that was almost akin to pain. He found himself resisting an absurd, an incredible impulse—a ten- derness such as he had used to know, stealthily and unadmittedly, for a young half invalid with the habit of triumphing where robust men fell, multiplied now for this man. “Truitt, * Henley stopped, an embarrassment as unwonted as the impulse upon him, and turned again to the window. “Truitt,” he began again, very gruffly, eyes still fixed on the city the magic of the hills revealed to him, “I— well, I lke you. I've always counted you my friend. I don’t want to have to fight you. I don’t think you want to fight me. There i{s—there may be another alternative,” He turned to face Mark. “Take me in with you" Mark looked his astonishment. “I say,” Henley went on. “I might do it. I've seen something thie morn. ing—something you've been eeeing. The city out there. It's big-—big! And if the flgures you've given me are correct, it's possible, This place was intended for a tity. And with us working together, it could be ten times bigger—epic—stupendous!” He got to his feet, and shooting up the shade, stood looking thoughtfully out of the window, “We'd make it,” Henley seemed al most to be thinking aloud, “a city from the beginning. We'd get the gov- ernment to make the river navigable to the mouth and ship our coal by boat to the gulf. I can think of a dozen concerns | could get to move thelr plants here and contractors who'd un- dertake to house the people. In five years we'd have fifty thousand here, and coming as fast as we could put roofs over them. But we'd build on steel. We'd quadruple your plant at once—for a start. We'd make this the steel center and this overgrown trust with its graft and favoritism and slip shod methods would have us to reckon with. We'd leave Quinby and that Scotch bagpipe, grown fat on other men's brains, in the shade. By God!” Henley's volce was ringing, as wheeled on Mark again, “It would be the big thing of the century ing a city to order. And | guess for that you'd be willing to give up your little two-by-four paternalism.” “That would be stipulated?” “Certainly! We'll —* Henley seemed unconscious of the change of and tense cranks, We'll a rock—on a sound financial founda tion—and use the profits for exten np think you don’t understand what I “Understand? stand That's why the You're a born battler; coming too easy for you ie the Liat things You need I need that street. | can tighten my hold. I'm a bullder, not a money-grubber. I've got to see I'm at now is just a game. This would consider 1t?™ “Are you offering It?” There may be magic in these hills, ing you? “put out of business.” dow, minutes, looking not upon “What do you say?” Henley demand: ed impatiently, “It doesn't tempt.” steadily. “You Mark faced him were mistaken. 1 don't stacles, through.” He nodded toward the vil lage and the mills “Humph! You'll find plenty of ob stacles and battles over there” “Yes. But there would be-—com- pensations.” “l would give you compensations. Do you mean,” Henley demanded, “you choose to hobble along with a little one-horse plant and philanthropy when you might go with me igto some- thing really big? Compensations! You'll end in losing all you have.” “All the money 1 have,” Mark cor rected. “That is possible. But I'm not worrying about the poor farm. | expect, when that happens, | can find a good job somewhere.” “Then,” Henley fired his last gun, grufily, “then you choose those people over there against me--who made yout “They helped to make me-to make you, too.-~You,” Mark answered qul etly, “don’t tempt. “I'd ike you to underetand,” he con tinued after a little pause, “since you've mentioned friendship, 1 don't like to think of you as an enemy. But this plan, this idea, is worth a good deal to me, even though the chance of success ia small. It came to me be fore the strike. And at first it was only tha shallow sentimentality you think it. Then it became a refuge, | came here because there was a thing"--Henley saw the shadow that passed over his face—"a thing I want. od to forget, something 1 needed to earn. But now it's grown beyond that it has a value of its own. It's my niche, the thing | must do. You've helped me to make that clear, “You ought to understand it, for you had it. t's what saved vou from be ing Like the other m grubbers, You came close to being one of them, Why, once when Quinby cracked his whip you — you -—— cringed like a whipped dog before the old blather gkite because you loved your money. You remember that, don't you? And then you ran afoul of him again, over the strike, when the game threat hung over you, and you didn’t cringe. You beat him down. Why?” “1 couldn't let" “No, you couldn't, You believed op- poeing him would cost you much. The strike you forced did take hundréds of thousands from the value of your stock. But you didn’t think of that then. And now—you've claimed my friendship. How much does it mean to you?” “A good deal, Trulit,” Henley an- swered slowly. “It's the only friend- ship | ever wanted. It was my reason for making you what you are” “Friendship means obligation — you've justi reminded me of that Would {t add to your obligation if | told you that you got away whole from Quinby because of me?” “What! What's this? You never told me—"" “It wasn't 1 who did it but an.” Henley saw the shadow fi wom again “I'm Offering It as a Possible Alterna- tive to Putting You Out of Busi ness!” “But she did it for me. I took for you | an advantage I wouldn't take for my { self. Does that square what you did for me?™ “Yes I don't | does. It more than squares iL” { "“Then-—my suf re you-—will you stand aside a fight it out with the othera?” Cel Le i i 4 i { the best thing I've ever done! | There was a long silence in the little | room Henley sat stiffly, staring at i | i influence. And the unmistakable now. “1 see,” he said at last, as if reluc tantly. “1 guess I'm the only one of the money grubbers who could under stand. It seems to be your against mine. I'm sorry.” “It seems so. I'm sorry, too. “My city—I guess it was just the magic of the hills, after all. 1 don't | want to do it without you-—I'm sorry.” There was a heavy pause Then Henley drew a long breath wan | almost a sigh, glanced at and rose. “i'll take another cigar,” he grimly facetious, "if you don't giving ald ana comfort to the enemy Then I'll go back to my money grub bing.” When they were standing on the station platform he asked abruptly, | “Can you tell me about that woman | business 1” “1'd rather not” Henley scrutinized him keenly From around a curve came the cres whistle of the approaching {of his pain was i that the clock sald | cendo | train. room to heaven. There had even been a period in that farof!, innocent girl hood when she had thought of it as a beautiful restful haven, to which, some day when he should have tired of the greedy city and its grind, her lover might bring her. Always, It seemed, she had needed and wanted a haven. If only he had brought her then, what might have been saved! “What might have been saved! But I mustn't think of that” From down a narrow lane she caught a glimpse of the river, smiling In the sunlight. It beckoned to her and she obeyed, turning her steps A thick grove of oaks and was alone with the river und forest for her. Hours passed. A few fleecy, tum- bling clouds floated over her. Heavier knd less silvery masses appeared over the western horizon ened did not And not Khe notice, suddenly she knew that she was alone, She turned and gaw him standing near, staring, bewll rd her her bosom lifted in a breath, got gi Yor ered yet st ngeLy Her ra lips parted, arp Intake of eager, Lowa as their eyes met Then she away that she might regain a lost control He a culiar haltiz sea with norte i £ pulse stopped “Kazia “Yon. * derstand.” Belfcontrol was com st Plotr.” ir.” he 4 repeated meclhian { comprehend hand over his 4 i eyes not Gradu -with a d pain and rel JO the Jumble flewnh allze it,” he sald at of you just thinking nking of you he oeen aon th &© 1, to Linc She started swiftly along the bank the village He followed, try- with her, and with a real effort managed IL mile was traversed, speaking, she keeping always one pace ahead so th iid gee her { face. Then she observed heavy breathing and slackened her pace “1 didn’t realize | was walking s0 fast” Her voice was quiet again “1 don’t ft" Hae laugh, a 3 mirthless attempt -l need a counterdrritant just n¢ “And 1 didn’t mean what | sald back there. 1 haven't felt that way—often I have no resentment against n i It was in | toward ing to keep up thus not at he co © his mind OT ow ab 4 { at least you-—only ag keej it is all = thing.” “That is true “1 don"t kno of mg. And so you turing yourself with frut * DEL mse me to deliberateiy— clean and 1 3 iear now--chose the worst of all of us” w, | needn't go on for for his grip, “get her up here | need her | out, come to me and Ill give you a | Job.” until It was caught out of his sight Then he let his gaze dwell Hngeringly on the mills and village across the river. A wave of protectiveness swap! over him, of tenderness as for a deeply loved one. And quick upon that wave, ere {tf ebbed, surged anotheg, as though un der the shock of the first contact with opposition a dam had fallen, loosing a torrent that flooded hile soul, lifting him high, filling his need. Conscious ness, distinct, definite, thrilling, filled him—of a new power and mettle, of the vitality of his purpose, of an ulth mate purpose into which his fitted, A welght fell like the pilgrim's pack from his shoulders. erect, steady. He lifted his eyes to the hills. “1 can put it through I have falth™ Iwill . . « ov s—— CHAPTER XXVIII White Water. The woman who alighted with Hen. ley from the train hud come with an errand. Sundry inquiries from the station and at the new hotel-—so hide ously garish amid the gray tones of its grroundings—convinced her that she would need Mark Truitt's help. But she had overheard her fellow pas senger's questions to the doctor and guessed that Mark would be with him for most of that day. She stayed in her little hotel room until dinner time. After that meal, eaten In a nolsy dining-room filled with still homeless men who had come to build or work in the Bethel experi ment, she went out and wandered about through the old village, of which years before, hearing of it from an un appreciative young adventurer, she had used to think as a sort of ante “Kazia? You responsibility. Oh, 1 don’t want you to do that. jt can help neither of us | and it will eripple your work here.” “It isn't facing the truth that can hurt, but the truth iteadf. Kazia, why did you come here?” “1 told you--to get Piotr.” *Plotr? 1 had forgotten him, 1 heard this morning he was here.” “I'iren he is here? 1 asked at the station and hotel, but no one had seen or heard of him.” “But why Is he here? bave you come?” “He came back to us a few weeks ago, the forlornest wall I've ever seen. 1 don't know how he had been living—we'd no trace of him since Uncle Roman died. He was starving and his mind was clearly gone. | sup pose he wouldn't have come to me otherwise. 1 ought to have put him away somewhere, but he was harm less and it seemed so cruel. He just And why sat around poring over books as he used to when ke was a boy. He seemed to have forgotten all that's happened since then, And then three days ago he awoke, He asked me for some money--sald something about a debt he had to pay. It was little enough and he’s had so little of everything, poor Plotr!”™ “Bo very little “He went out and didn’t come back, And yesterday-—1'd eeen she was worrying, but thought it was because "” a he hadn't appeared again---the Matka told me she thought from something { be'd sald that he might have come up here to try to harm you in some way Do you know where he is?” “The doctor here, who told me about | him, sald he's camping n an old shed over thers in ln.” “It you'll help to him, some . “1 will go myself” The ¥ hi to the out i the hil me or gend one—" vd the lane that led Bhe put ed and the hotel he reac! main street would have out a hand and stayed her, “Kazia, turned there, but + hotel? pust lea passed out of his tarted quickly villageward. ttage he harnessed his horse bridge to Hedges’ buggy, drove across the the road that led CHAPTER XXIX. The know Miracle, he had thought, mes.” i he drove there ca edge of his to him it came, of not yet me miracle fea ieep, _ 1 | else again He remern There was a rumble o glanced overhead enced sky. heard th few scatters horse forward He was miles away from the village r the foo tow- of a hill well its as he saw a ost oblit that above neighbors He of an old erated by weeds, that It crest, uthouse that trace eminence sar the ore he When he edge of hie hed to n., entered made ws of 1} a win. Piotr. watching | dowless i He the €torm He had been there several mi } g queer choking sound om behind him. He turned his eves became HE d, he saw no sgigns of stood in the doorway, nutes came quickly, to the darkne« ut the figure crouch- ing half hidden behind a bench in the far corner ‘Hello! Is that you, re you doing over there?” The noise came again “is something wrong Mark went closer to him Truitt. Don't you know me, Piotr?” “Y-ves,” quavered Plotr “What's the matter—elick?™ “I'm a-afraid,” came the whimpering reply. “it's the storm.” Mark smiled pityingly. So this poor nerve-broken creature, who cowered before a little wind and rain a~d light- ning, was he who had set cut to harm im. “He's in a bad way,” he thought “There, now,” he sald, gently, “I'm not | going to hurt you. Piotr.” {| Plotr was in his corner. half crouch | Ing. staring fxedly at Mark, His eyes | made tiny points of light in the deep | shadow. | “Ddid you come hers to get me?” “Of course 1 did. 1 heard you were hereabouts and I wasn't going to let you siay up here and starve to death™ “Wh-what are you ggoing to do with me now “For one thing,” Mark answered gravely, “when this rain lets up I'm going to take you back to town and get you in the habit of eating three square meals a day. | think it's be ginning to let up a little now.” “Who,” came Plotr's quavering volee, “who told you | was here?” “The doctor who found you yester jay-—and Kazia"” “Kazia! She-she is here?” “Yes. She came to get you" “She knows?” “8he guessed--she and the Matka guessed-—you were up to some mis chief. You frightened the Matka with your wild talk, But we'll discuss that later. Come, we'll make a start now.” ar used made o Piotr? What with you?" “I'm Mark (TO BE CONTINURS »
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