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"I'd kill Flemister on sight, if I had the sand; you know that, Gridley. Some day it may come to that. But in the meantime " "In the meantime you have been snapping at his heels like a fice-dog, Hallock; holding out ore-cars on him, delaying his coal supplies, stirring up trouble with his miners. That was all right, up to yesterday. But now it has got to stop."
"I said I could name you, and I will!" he cried, springing to his feet. "You," pointing to the smaller man, "you are Pennington Flemister; and you," wheeling upon the tall man and lowering his voice, "you are Rankin Hallock!" The light of the fire in the shop yard had died down until its red glow no longer drove the shadows from the corners of the room.
That will let you out, and me, too." Hallock stood up and leaned over the desk end. His saturnine face was a mask of cold rage, but his eyes were burning. "If I thought you knew what you're saying," he began in the grating voice, "but you don't you can't know!" Then, with a sudden break in the fierce tone: "Don't send me to Flemister for my clearance don't do it, Mr. Lidgerwood.
"I have one, and Spurlock, the line-chief, has one. Hallock has the third." "Always Hallock!" was the half-impatient comment. "I hope you don't suspect him of stealing your wire." McCloskey tilted his hat over his eyes, and looked truculent enough to fight an entire cavalry troop. "That's just what I do," he gritted. "I've got him dead to rights this time.
This recurrence of the mysterious message, of which no trace could be found in the head-quarters record, opened a fresh field of discussion, and it was McCloskey who put his finger upon the only plausible conclusion. "It is Hallock again," he rasped. "He is the only man who could have used the private code. Dix probably picked out the cipher; he's got a weakness for such things.
Haven't you heard the ghastly story yet?" "No; and, Leckhard, I don't know that I care to hear it. It can't possibly concern me." "It's just as well, I guess," said the main-line superintendent carelessly. "I probably shouldn't get it straight anyway. It's a rather horrible affair, though, I believe. There is another man mixed up in it the man whom she is always asking if Hallock has killed.
There were two fonts of beautiful type, of different sizes, modeled on the best Arabic calligraphy, and cut by Mr. Hallock at New York. The type were cast in Syria under the supervision of Mr. Hurter.
Oddly enough, on the other hand, there was a prepossession, quite as unreasoning, for Hallock. There was absolutely nothing in the chief clerk to inspire liking, or even common business confidence; on the contrary, while Hallock attended to his duties and carried out his superior's instructions with the exactness of an automaton, his attitude was distinctly antagonistic.
Whenever you get ready to put Hallock under the hydraulic press, you'll squeeze what you want to know out of him." This was coming to be an old subject and a sore one. The trainmaster still insisted that Hallock was the man who was planning the robberies and plotting the downfall of the Lidgerwood management, and he wanted to have the chief clerk systematically shadowed.
"Because, the day before yesterday, when I was on the Little Butte station platform, talking with Goodloe, I saw Flemister and Hallock walking down the new spur together. When they saw me, they turned around and began to walk back toward the mine." "Hallock had business with Flemister, I know that much, and he took half a day off Thursday to go and see him," said the superintendent.
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