It was not; but by the time Cyrus had been ordered twice across the city and once up a sixteen-story building in which the elevator was out of order it was past noon, and he was in a condition to find "Env. No. 7" a very satisfactory one:

Go to Cafe Reynard on Westchester Square. Take seat at table in left alcove. Ask waiter for card of Cornelius Woodbridge, Jr.

Before ordering luncheon read Env. No. 8. C. W. Jr.

The boy lost no time in obeying this command, and sank into his chair in the designated alcove with a sigh of relief. He mopped his brow and drank off a gla.s.s of ice water at a gulp. It was a warm October day, and the sixteen flights had been somewhat trying. He asked for his father's card, and then sat studying the attractive menu. The Cafe Reynard was a place famous the country over for its cookery.

"I think I'll have--" he mused for a moment then said helplessly with a laugh--"well, I'm about hungry enough to eat the whole thing. Bring me the----"

Then he recollected, paused, and reluctantly pulled out "Env. No. 8" and broke the seal. "Just a minute," he murmured to the waiter. Then his face turned scarlet, and he stammered under his breath, "Why--why--this can't be----"

"Env. No. 8" ought to have been bordered with black, judging by the dismay it caused the famished lad. It read remorselessly:

Leave Cafe immediately, without stopping for luncheon, remembering to fee waiter for place retained. Proceed to box office, Metropolitan Theatre, buy a parquet ticket for matinee--"The Pied Piper." At end of first act read Env.

No. 9. C. W. Jr.

The Woodbridge blood was up now, and it was with an expression resembling that of his Grandfather Cornelius under strong indignation that Cyrus stalked out of that charming place to proceed grimly toward the Metropolitan Theatre.

"Who wants to see a matinee on an empty stomach?" he groaned. "I suppose I'll be ordered out, anyway, the minute I sit down and stretch my legs.

Wonder if father can be exactly right in his mind. He doesn't believe in wasting time, but I'm wasting it to-day by the bucketful. Suppose he's doing this to size me up some way; he isn't going to tire me out as quick as he thinks. I'll keep going till I drop."

Nevertheless, when at the end of the first act of a pretty play by a well-trained company of school children he was ordered to go three miles to a football field, and then ordered away again without a sight of the game he had planned for a week to see, his disgust was intense.

All through that long, warm afternoon he raced about the city and suburbs, growing wearier and more empty with every step. The worst of it was the orders were beginning to a.s.sume the form of a schedule, and commanded that he be here at 3:15, and there at 4:05, and so on, which forbade loitering had he been inclined to loiter. In it all he could see no purpose, except the possible one of trying his physical endurance. He was a strong boy, or he would have been quite exhausted long before he reached "Env. No. 17," which was the last but three of the packet. This read:

Reach home at 6:20 P. M. Before entering house read No. 18. C. W., Jr.

Leaning against one of the big white stone pillars of the porch of his home, Cyrus wearily tore open No. 18--and the words fairly swam before his eyes. He had to rub them hard to make sure that he was not mistaken.

Go again to Kingston Heights, corner West and Dwight streets, reaching there by 6:50. Read No. 19. C. W., Jr.

The boy looked up at the windows, desperately angry at last. If his pride and his sense of the meaning of that phrase, "My word of honour,"

as the men of the Woodbridge family were in the habit of teaching it to their sons, had not been both of the strongest sort, he would have rebelled and gone defiantly and stormily in. As it was, he stood for one long minute with his hands clenched and his teeth set; then he turned and walked down the steps, away from the longed-for dinner, and out toward L Street and the car for Kingston Heights.

As he did so, inside the house, on the other side of the curtain, from behind which he had been anxiously peering, Cornelius Woodbridge, Senior, turned about and struck his hands together, rubbing them in a satisfied way.

"He's come--and gone," he cried softly, "and he's on time to the minute!"

Cornelius, Junior, did not so much as lift his eyes from the evening paper, as he quietly answered, "Is he?" But the corners of his mouth slightly relaxed. One who knew him well might have guessed that he thought it a simple matter to risk any number of chances on a sure thing.

The car seemed to crawl out to Kingston Heights. As it at last neared its terminus, a strong temptation seized the boy Cyrus. He had been on a purposeless errand to this place once that day. The corner of West and Dwight streets lay more than half a mile from the end of the car route, and it was an almost untenanted district. His legs were very tired; his stomach ached with emptiness. Why not wait out the interval which it would take to walk to the corner and back in the little suburban station, read "Env. No. 19," and spare himself? He had certainly done enough to prove that he was a faithful messenger.

Had he? Certain old and well-worn words came into his mind: they had been in his "writing-book" in his early school-days: "_A chain is no stronger than its weakest link._" Cyrus jumped off the car before it fairly stopped and started at a hot pace for the corner of West and Dwight streets. There must be no weak places in his word of honour.

Doggedly he went to the extreme limit of the indicated route, even taking the longest way round to make the turn. As he started back, beneath the arc light at the corner there suddenly appeared a city messenger boy. He approached Cyrus grinning, and held out an envelope.

"Ordered to give you this," he said, "if you made connections. If you'd been later than five minutes past seven, I was to keep dark. You've got seven minutes and a half to spare. Queer orders, but the big railroad boss, Woodbridge, give 'em to me."

Cyrus made his way back to the car with some self-congratulations that served to brace up the muscles behind his knees. This last incident showed him plainly that his father was putting him to a severe test of some sort, and he could have no doubt that it was for a purpose. His father was the kind of man who does things with a very definite purpose indeed. Cyrus looked back over the day with an anxious searching of his memory to be sure that no detail of the singular service required of him had been slighted.

As he once more ascended the steps of his own home, he was so confident that his labours were now ended that he almost forgot about "Env. No.

20" which he had been directed to read in the vestibule before entering the house. With his thumb on the bell-b.u.t.ton he recollected, and with a sigh broke open the final seal:

Turn about and go to Lenox Street Station, B---- Railroad, reaching there by 8.05. Wait for messenger in west end of station, by telegraph office. C. W., Jr.

It was a blow, but Cyrus had his second wind now. He felt like a machine--a hollow one--which could keep on going indefinitely.

"I know how an automobile feels," he said to himself, "rolling about from one place to another--never knowing where it's due next--always waiting outside--never getting fed. Wonder if eating is on this schedule. I'd have laid in something besides a chop and a roll this morning at breakfast if I'd known what was ahead."

The Lenox Station was easily reached on time. The hands of the big clock were only at one minute past eight when Cyrus entered. At the designated spot the messenger met him. Cyrus recognized the man as a porter on one of the trains of the road of which his grandfather and father were officers. Why, yes, he was the porter of the Woodbridge special car! He brought the boy a card which ran thus:

Give porter the letter from Norwalk Building, the card received at restaurant, the matinee coupon, yesterday evening's _Sentinel_, and the envelope received at Kingston Heights. C. W., Jr.

Cyrus silently delivered up these articles, feeling a sense of thankfulness that not one was missing. The porter went away with them, but was back in three minutes.

"This way, sir," he said, and Cyrus followed, his heart beating fast.

Down the track he recognized the "Fleetwing," President Woodbridge's private car. And Grandfather Cornelius he knew to be just starting on a tour of his own and other roads, which included a flying trip to Mexico.

Could it be possible----

In the car his father and grandfather rose to meet him. Cornelius Woodbridge, Senior, was holding out his hand.

"Cyrus, lad," he said, his face one broad, triumphant smile, "you have stood the test--the Hezekiah Woodbridge test, sir--and you may be proud of it. Your word of honour can be depended upon. You are going with us through nineteen states and Mexico. Is that reward enough for one day's hardship?"

"I think it is, sir," agreed Cyrus, his round face reflecting his grandfather's smile, intensified.

"Was it a hard pull, Cyrus?" questioned the elder Woodbridge with interest.

Cyrus looked at his father. "I don't think so--now, sir," he said. Both gentlemen laughed.

"Are you hungry?"

"Well, just a little, grandfather."

"Dinner will be served the moment we are off. We've only six minutes to wait. I'm afraid--I'm very much afraid"--the old gentleman turned to gaze searchingly out of the car window into the station--"that another boy's word of honour isn't----"

He stood, watch in hand. The conductor came in and remained, awaiting orders. "Two minutes more, Mr. Jefferson," he said. "One and a half----one half a minute." He spoke sternly: "Pull out at 8:14 on the second, sir. Ah----"

The porter entered hurriedly, and delivered a handful of envelopes into Grandfather Cornelius's grasp. The old gentleman scanned them at a glance.

"Yes--yes--all right!" he cried, with the strongest evidences of excitement Cyrus had ever seen in his usually imperturbable manner. As the train made its first gentle motion of departure, a figure appeared in the doorway. Quietly, not at all out of breath, and with precisely his own nonchalant manner, Cornelius Woodbridge 3d walked into the car.

Then Grandfather Woodbridge grew impressive. He advanced and shook hands with his grandson as if he were greeting a distinguished member of the board of directors. Then he turned to his son and shook hands with him also, solemnly. His eyes shone through his gold-rimmed spectacles, but his voice was grave with feeling.

"I congratulate you, Cornelius," he said, "on possessing two sons whose word of honour is of the sort to satisfy the Hezekiah Woodbridge standard. The smallest deviation from the outlined schedule would have resulted disastrously. Ten minutes' tardiness at the different points would have failed to obtain the requisite doc.u.ments. Your sons did not fail. They can be depended upon. The world is in search of men built on those lines. I congratulate you, sir."

Cyrus was glad presently to escape to his stateroom with Cornelius.

"Say, what did you have to do?" he asked eagerly. "Did you trot your legs off all over town?"

"Not much, I didn't!" said Cornelius, grimly, from the depths of a big towel. "I spent the whole day in a little hole of a room at the top of an empty building, with just ten trips down the stairs to the ground floor to get envelopes at certain minutes. Not a crumb to eat nor a thing to do. Couldn't even s.n.a.t.c.h a nap for fear I'd oversleep one of my dates at the bottom. Had five engagements, too--one with Helena Fowler at the links. All I could do was to cut 'em and stick it out.

Casabianca was nothing to me."