"I do not wish to do anything to offend Sparling, for he is
an old friend, and one of the best showmen in the country.
I'll write him today, and see what he has to say. That young
man, Forrest, or whatever his name may be, is giving us more
trouble than we ever had before. He is practically putting our
men all out of business. We shall have to change our route, or
close, if he keeps on heading off our advance cars."
"It has come to a pretty pass, if a green boy with no previous
experience is to defeat us. What is the matter with our advance
men?" demanded the assistant manager.
"That is what I should like to know," answered Mr. Starr.
"I will write Sparling today about this matter."
Weeks had passed and Car Three had worked its way across the
plains, on into the mountainous country. Car managers had again
been changed on the yellow car; another car had been sent in
ahead of Phil, but to no better purpose than before.
Car Three moved on, making one brilliant dash after another,
sometimes winning out by the narrowest margin and apparently by
pure luck. Still, Phil Forrest and his loyal crew were never
caught napping and were never headed off for more than a day at
a time.
The season was drawing to a close. One day Phil received a wire
from Mr. Sparling reading:
"Close at Deming, New Mexico, September fifteen.
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