My respect for Crawford increased amazingly as I read that message, and I began at once to bully the agent because the special was not ready at that minute to start.

The second message was a laconic statement that dad was still alive; I folded it hurriedly and put it out of sight, for somehow it seemed to say a good many nasty things between the words.
I wired Crawford that I was ready to start and waiting for the special, and then I fumed and continued my bullying of the man in the office; he was not to blame for anything, of course, but it was a tremendous relief to take it out of somebody just then.
The special came, on time to a second, and I swung on and told the conductor to put her through for all she was worth--but he had already got his instructions as to speed, I fancy; we ripped down the track a mile a minute--and it wasn't long till we bettered that more than I'd have believed possible.

The superintendent's car had been given over to me, I learned from the porter, and would carry me to Ogden, where dad's own car, the _Shasta_, would meet me.

There, too, I saw the hand of Crawford; it was not like dad or him to borrow anything unless the necessity was absolute.
I hope I may never be compelled to take another such journey.

Not that I was nervous at the killing pace we went--and it was certainly hair-raising, in places; but every curve that we whipped around on two wheels--approximately--told me that dad was in desperate case indeed, and that Crawford was oiling every joint with gold to get me there in time.