We shall begin soon to blast our
way through."
"Don't come to me," said Charles Gould, with perfect serenity. "I
shan't have an ounce to spare for anybody. Not an ounce. Not for my own
brother, if I had a brother, and he were the engineer-in-chief of the
most promising railway in the world."
"What's that?" asked the engineer-in-chief, with equanimity.
"Unkindness?"
"No," said Charles Gould, stolidly. "Policy."
"Radical, I should think," the engineer-in-chief observed from the
doorway.
"Is that the right name?" Charles Gould said, from the middle of the
room.
"I mean, going to the roots, you know," the engineer explained, with an
air of enjoyment.
"Why, yes," Charles pronounced, slowly. "The Gould Concession has struck
such deep roots in this country, in this province, in that gorge of the
mountains, that nothing but dynamite shall be allowed to dislodge it
from there. It's my choice. It's my last card to play."
The engineer-in-chief whistled low. "A pretty game," he said, with a
shade of discretion. "And have you told Holroyd of that extraordinary
trump card you hold in your hand?"
"Card only when it's played; when it falls at the end of the game.
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