“Hooray!”
The truck was emptied rapidly, as it rolled on, yard by yard, to keep up with the track. Now it was tipped to one side, and on charged Jimmie himself bringing fresh supply. Back galloped old Jenny.
General Casement was timing.
“Faster, men,” he rapped. “Down with ’em. Hit ’em hard. Be ready with those fish-plates, boys. Make every move tell. We’re out for a record.”
The men who had been carrying the rails turned to ballasting. So fast the track advanced that the crowd of spectators were constantly jostling onward, advancing also. George arrived, breathless, from the pay-car. Superintendent Reed had come up with it; so had Dan Casement, the general’s brother and partner.
“How far’ve they gone now?” George panted, his eyes snapping.
“I dunno. We’ve just started. But look at ’em hustle, will yuh!” answered Terry.
Virgie danced impatiently, craning and cheering.
“I guess they’ll lay ten miles, won’t they?” she implored.
“Aw, what’s the matter with you?” George rebuked. “That’s just like a girl. No gang can lay ten miles in a day.”