Where's Mr. Ryder?"

There was a general move of the scattered groups of directors
toward the committee room. The clock overhead began to strike. The
last stroke had not quite died away when the big swinging doors
from the street were thrown open and there entered a tall, thin
man, gray-headed, and with a slight stoop, but keen eyed and
alert. He was carefully dressed in a well-fitting frock coat,
white waistcoat, black tie and silk hat.

It was John Burkett Ryder, the Colossus.




CHAPTER II


At fifty-six, John Burkett Ryder was surprisingly well preserved.
With the exception of the slight stoop, already noted, and the
rapidly thinning snow-white hair, his step was as light and
elastic, and his brain as vigorous and alert, as in a man of
forty. Of old English stock, his physical make-up presented all
those strongly marked characteristics of our race which, sprung
from Anglo-Saxon ancestry, but modified by nearly 300 years of
different climate and customs, has gradually produced the distinct
and true American type, as easily recognizable among the family of
nations as any other of the earth's children. Tall and
distinguished-looking, Ryder would have attracted attention
anywhere. Men who have accomplished much in life usually bear