Everybody was keen to hear if the Central had anything yet to say about the U. P. track-laying record. Time was growing short. But the Central had said little. It was reported that they had had hard luck. Iron was scarce, and in order to make up for lost hours they had laid track at night, by the light of sage-brush bonfires. Now they were out of rails, again. Their “iron-train,” as they called it, had been ditched, by a broken trestle.
The Union Pacific crept on, here to the foot of Promontory Point of the rugged Promontory Range; the meeting-place agreed upon was only nine miles up and over, and the track-layers might take things a little easy.
But the Central had braced; they had the spirit, all right, and those seven and five-eighths miles as a challenge did not bluff them.
George brought the answer.
“We’ll lay ten miles of track in one day’s stint,” was the telegraphed announcement of Superintendent Crocker.
“Ten thousand dollars that you can’t do it,” was the reply of Mr. Durant, the U. P. vice-president, from New York. “Choose your time and place and we’ll have men there to see.”
“Tin miles? Those fellers?” Pat scoffed. “Eight’s the limit o’ any gang. Haven’t we stumped ’em wid sivin an’ a bit? If they lay tin miles I’ll crawl over it on me hands an’ knees wid me nose countin’ the ties!”
“When’ll they try? Did you hear?” demanded Terry, of George.
“No. All I saw was in the Ogden paper. Expect they’ll choose the levelest place they have. You bet I’m going to be there.”
“So am I!”