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“Tom.

“P.S. If it doesn’t bother you too much, send it along
next mail.”

“Dear Uncle Fred”:

the other letter ran, in what seemed to him a strange, foreign-taught, yet distinctly feminine hand.

“Dad doesn’t know I am writing this. He told me what he said
to you. It is not true. He is coming home to die. He doesn’t
know it, but I’ve talked with the doctors. And he’ll have to
come home, for we have no money. We’re in a stuffy little
boarding house, and it is not the place for Dad. He’s helped
other persons all his life, and now is the time to help him.
He didn’t play ducks and drakes in Yucatan. I was with him,
and I know. He dropped all he had there, and he was robbed.
He can’t play the business game against New Yorkers. That
explains it all, and I am proud he can’t.

“He always laughs and says I’ll never be able to get along
with you. But I don’t agree with him. Besides, I’ve never
seen a really, truly blood relative in my life, and there’s
your daughter. Think of it!–a real live cousin!

“In anticipation,
“Your niece,
“BRONISLAWA PLASKOWEITZKAIA TRAVERS.

“P.S. You’d better telegraph the money, or you won’t see Dad
at all. He doesn’t know how sick he is, and if he meets any
of his old friends he’ll be off and away on some wild goose
chase. He’s beginning to talk Alaska. Says it will get the
fever out of his bones. Please know that we must pay the
boarding house, or else we’ll arrive without luggage.

“B.P.T.”

Frederick Travers opened the door of a large, built-in safe and methodically put the letters away in a compartment labelled “Thomas Travers.”

“Poor Tom! Poor Tom!” he sighed aloud.

II

The big motor car waited at the station, and Frederick Travers thrilled as he always thrilled to the distant locomotive whistle of the train plunging down the valley of Isaac Travers River. First of all westering white-men, had Isaac Travers gazed on that splendid valley, its salmon-laden waters, its rich bottoms, and its virgin forest slopes. Having seen, he had grasped and never let go. “Land-poor,” they had called him in the mid-settler period. But that had been in the days when the placers petered out, when there were no wagon roads nor tugs to draw in sailing vessels across the perilous bar, and when his lonely grist mill had been run under armed guards to keep the marauding Klamaths off while wheat was ground. Like father, like son, and what Isaac Travers had grasped, Frederick Travers had held. It had been the same tenacity of hold. Both had been far-visioned. Both had foreseen the transformation of the utter West, the coming of the railroad, and the building of the new empire on the Pacific shore.

Frederick Travers thrilled, too, at the locomotive whistle, because, more than any man’s, it was his railroad. His father had died still striving to bring the railroad in across the mountains that averaged a hundred thousand dollars to the mile. He, Frederick, had brought it in. He had sat up nights over that railroad; bought newspapers, entered politics, and subsidised party machines; and he had made pilgrimages, more than once, at his own expense, to the railroad chiefs of the East. While all the county knew how many miles of his land were crossed by the right of way, none of the county guessed nor dreamed the number of his dollars which had gone into guaranties and railroad bonds. He had done much for his county, and the railroad was his last and greatest achievement, the capstone of the Travers’ effort, the momentous and marvellous thing that had been brought about just yesterday. It had been running two years, and, highest proof of all of his judgment, dividends were in sight. And farther reaching reward was in sight. It was written in the books that the next Governor of California was to be spelled, Frederick A. Travers.