Andy wrinkled his brows. “I ’ave found it a bit difficult,” he began importantly; “just a bit, you know, to classify the flowers as to whether they are oxillary, confulate, peduncular, polyandrous, gynandrous, zygomorphic——”
“Holy mackerel!” roared Gillis, as he clapped his hands over his ears. “Stop him, somebody!”
Douglas caught Andy by the coat-tail and dragged him from the door. Connie’s cheerful laughter drifted back to them through the darkness.
The Breed crossed the outer edge of light thrown from the doorway and limped to the trail. Wherever Connie went her argus-eyed guardian flitted in the background.
CHAPTER XI
In the construction of the railroad to Summit Lake the speed and efficiency of the R. C. & L. Co’s organization excelled any past effort.
The land-clearing outfit arrived the evening after Andy’s party and began work on that portion of the right-of-way that skirted the west shore of the lake. Like a swath of destruction, the ground became covered with the litter and wreckage of blasted trees—noble trees that had stood for centuries like silent sentinels guarding the limpid blue lake lapping gently at their feet.
For two days Connie had been no nearer than the bluff. Seated astride her horse, she now gazed in startled awe on the invasion of her loved valley. On the third day, drawn by a horrible fascination, she ventured timidly into the valley and watched with wide eyes the advance of the pygmy army, who, with such tiny tools as the axe and saw, crashed to earth mammoth trees that seemed as enduring as the mountains on which they stood.
The steam-shovel roared and crashed in the distance as it ploughed deep gashes in the green hillside, men shouted, heavy wagons banged over the rough road, and fearful blasts shook the air. Through all this tumult the men worked in a frenzy of haste.
A giant fir—a veritable king of the forest, towering in regal glory high above its mates—stood near the water’s edge. Around the massive bole of this tree Connie had played since her earliest recollection. She had endowed this half-god with a living personality, to whom she had confided all her childish fancies and aspirations. The corrugated bark bore numerous bits of nursery rhymes, and her name was etched deep with a sharp knife in several places. With a lump in her throat she saw the “fallers” move to the foot of this great tree and gaze aloft with appraising eyes. Then sinewy arms sent shining axes through the thick bark to form the “scarf,” which to Connie appeared as a gaping white wound on the dark grey trunk.