"It does nothing but rain in this country from the looks of things," he said to old Gabe Smith, who was going over the works with his old boss. "There's nothing for us but an early close—we may as well shut down at once. Last night the sun set clear and—look at it now."
It was late afternoon and the whole sky was heavy. The sun had broken through the clouds in the west, but behind the clouds the sky was red. The breeze that rustled in the poplars was chill—even cold—and carried the yellow leaves before it, or lifted them from the ground in little eddying gusts that whirled sharply in the open for a moment and then lost themselves in the closer branches of the shrubbery.
"We've had frost nearly every night this week," Gabe offered by way of corroborating what Keith McBain had said. "A little more and there'll be no workin' with the slushers at all."
McBain walked a short distance in silence and then turned back towards the camp.
"No use going any farther," he remarked at last, as if he were talking to himself. "This job's about done, anyhow, and the next move will be clear up to the valley—just north of town. Might as well hustle up the bit that's left here and move the outfit into town for the winter. It'll give us an early start for the spring, anyhow."
It required all of two weeks to complete what was still left of the work Keith McBain had contracted for at that point in the right-of-way where his camp had stood for the months of August and September. With good weather conditions it would have been completed in three or four days. But every morning found the ground that had been wet the day before frozen into a hard crust that made work impossible until noon. The work dragged along at a rate that would have tried the patience of anyone. It kept Keith McBain in a state of ill-temper from which, during the whole of the two weeks, he never recovered.
During those two weeks, however, the men who worked for Keith McBain were conscious of a change in the old contractor's manner that pleased some quite as much as it displeased others. In September it had been freely admitted by all that the old man was losing his grip. His power was going. His commands were not always obeyed, and no one retreated before his outbursts of profanity as they had once done.
But now—Old Silent was back on the job, loved and hated as before, driving his men recklessly in their labors and sparing himself as little as he spared his men, building from day to day, as conditions permitted, as if the whole responsibility of constructing a great national transcontinental highway rested upon his shoulders alone. The change was so complete, and so sudden, too, that the men marvelled. At first they observed it individually and thought it over quietly, without offering any comment. Later they began to discuss it in groups. Soon it became the chief topic of conversation.
Under ordinary circumstances little consideration would have been given to Keith McBain's return to his former habits. The men would have observed it, mentioned it casually, perhaps, and with smiles on their faces—and gone back to their work. But the circumstances under which the change had taken place were not ordinary. No man in the camp—not even McCartney—could account for it. The explanation was hidden behind Old Silent's grey, inscrutable countenance. As a matter of fact, the discussions in which the men engaged during the long, chilly evenings were not prompted solely—nor in the main—by any desire to find the explanation.
No one would have spoken at any length on the subject had it not been for the fact that among the men working for Keith McBain were a number who for some time had refused to admit that Keith McBain was recovering from his long period of inefficiency and weak management. When they were finally forced to admit what was so obvious that no one could remain blind to it, they became violent in their dislike for his harsh methods and intolerant moods. When they could no longer discredit him they began to denounce him. The group was a formidable element in camp—and was led ostensibly by McCartney, who doubtless saw one of his fondest hopes declining.