“Do you like Cheyenne, Virgie?” Terry asked, as the two mothers bustled to gather breakfast together.
“No; it’s too dirty and noisy. But I sha’n’t stay here. When Uncle Ralph (that was Terry’s father) brings his engine in, I’m going to ride up and down the track on it, all the time.”
“Breakfast will be ready in a minute,” called his mother. “You can wash out here in the kitchen; and you and George can be telling us about your fathers and about yourselves, and everything.”
CHAPTER XIII
SET FOR THE GREAT RACE
End o’ track, again! With the secret of the Home Cooking restaurant kept close from Engine Driver Richards; with Pat Miles urging the work, and the red-shirted, gray-shirted, blue-shirted Irish track-layers and spikers and ballasters sweating, and the sledges whanging, and the truck-loads of rails hauled by Jimmie Muldoon and brother astride horse and yellow mule rumbling up, and the puffing construction-train constantly elbowing the boarding-train out of the way, and the cheery song breaking forth ever and anon:
“Drill, my paddies, drill!
Drill, you tarriers, drill!
Oh, it’s work all day,
No sugar in your tay—
Wor-rkin’ on th’ U. Pay. Ra-a-ailway!”