And look at the grading! From Sherman to Humboldt Wells—725 miles, in the same thirteen months.
“I reckon nobody’s going to beat that, for a while,” vaunted George, the boss figurer.
“Reckon not, boy. But the C. P. have done pretty well. While we’ve been building 1,086 miles, and that extra ‘Z’ of near ten miles more, they’ve been building something like 675, with those fourteen miles yet to go on; but they’ll match our 550 miles in thirteen months with 549, ’cording to Major Hurd. Not much difference—huh?”
“Shucks! Don’t forget our other eighty. And besides, you fellows have been sort of loafing along, lately; and now you’re sitting here waiting. You could have been past ’em and part way to Humboldt Wells, if the Government hadn’t stopped you. You’ve been bucking the mountains, too, while they’ve had the desert.”
“They had the mountains in the beginning and we had the plains,” Terry reminded. “But, anyhow, if they’ll lay ten miles of track tomorrow, I’ll take off my hat to the Chinks.”
“So’ll I,” George agreed.
“I’ll ate mine,” declared Jimmie Muldoon. “An’ I’ll ate my brother’s, too. But say: is that what your figgers show? Have we all come wid the rails 550 miles in scarce more’n wan year?”
“Sure thing, Jimmie.”
“Glory be!” sighed Jimmie. “An’ me on the back of a horse, doublin’ the distance tin times iv’ry mile! Faith, I’ll ride back on the train. An’ what’s th’ whole distance, by miles, from Omyha to this place here?”
“One thousand and eighty-six miles, Jimmie.”