“Well, I reckon he’ll win, all right,” answered Terry. “The gang’s just getting limbered up. Come on, you and Virgie. Let’s hunt grub.”
The cooks had coffee and meat and potato and hot-bread ready. The squads were flocking to their messes.
“We’ll eat with Pat,” Terry proposed; and so they did, Virgie having the seat of honor.
“We’ll make it, we’ll make it,” Pat assured. “Sure we’ll make it. Ain’t we got to stick up a mark for them Chinks to aim at? Yes, an’ ain’t the papers out east waitin’ wid their big type, to tell all the world about it? Aye, we’ll make it. An’ if I know the gin’ral, then that thousand dollars’ll go as ’asy as it comes to him, an’ iv’ry man’ll have a bit to cilibrate on.”
Twelve-thirty! “Time!”
“Hit ’em ag’in, lads!” yelped Pat.
“Down! Down!” “Whang! Whang! Whangity-whang!”
A portion of the crowd had gone back to Bryan for dinner. Number 119 brought them in again, with the iron. Back and forth plied gaunt old Jenny and the bony nag her partner, hauling the trucks. Back and forth, on haul ever longer, plied the construction-train. End o’ track, followed by the General Casement party and the crowd, ever shot onward.
Mile-stake Four was passed; and in record time, Mile-stake Five; and Stake Six; and when the sun was low over the crests of the Wasatch Range, Stake Seven!
“Hurrah! Seven miles! Nobody’ll beat that, anyhow.”