The day dawned fine and snappy. When at six o’clock the construction-train pulled out with Terry and Virgie in the cab, its cars were black with people as well as rails and spikes and fastenings. A large part of Bryan was bound to end o’ track, also.
Paddy Miles already was busy, marshalling his gang on the outskirts of Granger siding. Little General Casement, his overcoat collar turned up around his whiskers, stood nervously puffing a cigar. His party of guests were with him. The chief of them was Major-General John M. Corse, an old army friend. They all had been entertained by General Casement—hunting and fishing and seeing the country, and making the grading-camps their base. They looked as though they’d had a gay night, celebrating in advance; but no amount of work or fun ever phazed the little general.
“Sure, is that your load—mainly peoples?” Pat hailed, of the cab, as he ran down the line of flat-cars, inspecting. “Get out the way, iv’ry wan o’ yez, an’ stand clear, or we’ll be ’atin’ the iron from under yez.”
The boarding-train stood upon the siding, to leave the way open for the construction-train to back on up in the wake of the trucks. The trucks were loaded and waiting. Jimmie Muldoon, his face as red as his hair, with excitement, sat his bony horse, expectant; his brother (likewise red) sat old Jenny, the rope taut. Old yellow Jenny had grown gaunt and stiff in the service; many and many a mile after mile had she galloped, but she was still game.
The long corrugated row of ties stretched westward, waiting, too. The nearest graders were staring back as they worked, to see the start. At the very end o’ track there was a dump of iron, in readiness. Every little help counted.
General Casement had been looking at his watch.
“Go!” he barked.
“Lay to it, lads,” shouted Pat. “We’re off. Now show them Cintral haythen a touch o’ the Irish!”
“Hooray!” the crowd cheered.
A file of the men attacked the end dump. Two by two they seized the rails and hustled them forward, in pairs. “Down! Down!” “Whang, whang, whangity-whang!” The fish-plate squads sprang with bolts and wrenches. In a few moments there were two streams of the rail-carriers—one double line trotting forward, one double line running back. End o’ track fairly leaped ahead. The dump became a far carry, when at a signal from Pat old Jenny and her truck-load came charging, with one-legged Dennis riding atop and Jimmie Muldoon’s brother whooping for passage.