There was the enemy, the representative of the Trust with which Derrick's League was locking horns.

The great struggle had begun to invest the combatants with interest.

Daily, almost hourly, Dyke was in touch with the ranchers, the wheat-growers.

He heard their denunciations, their growls of exasperation and defiance.

Here was the other side--this placid, fat man, with a stiff straw hat and linen vest, who never lost his temper, who smiled affably upon his enemies, giving them good advice, commiserating with them in one defeat after another, never ruffled, never excited, sure of his power, conscious that back of him was the Machine, the colossal force, the inexhaustible coffers of a mighty organisation, vomiting millions to the League's thousands.
The League was clamorous, ubiquitous, its objects known to every urchin on the streets, but the Trust was silent, its ways inscrutable, the public saw only results.