Right away, without waiting for spikes or bolts, a crew of other men had put their shoulders to the little car and rolled it onward to the end of the second pair of rails; the first spikers and bolters jumped to set a couple of spikes, clap on the fish-plate fasteners, and thrust a bolt or so through, while the gaugers measured and two crow-bar men stood ready to line up.
The Chinese spikers and bolt-screwers were on their heels, to drive the spikes and tighten the fish-plate bolts—but before this another pair of rails were down and the rail-car had advanced again!
In their parallel double lines the Chinese ballasters were coming, like a well-drilled company. They numbered fifty. The inner lines carried spades, the outer lines carried picks. The spades scraped and shoveled and tamped, between the ties; the picks rose and fell, piling up the dirt along the ends; thus the ties were settled and the track leveled, like lightning.
“Keep back, everybody!” shouted Superintendent Strobridge, as the people crowded and craned.
“In the name o’ the saints, wad yez look at ’em travel!” That was the exclamation of Paddy Miles, who had pressed afoot into the front rank of spectators, and was staring agape.
General Casement had his watch out.
“Five lengths of rail to the minute!” he announced.
“Gee! One hundred and forty feet!” gasped George. “How many minutes to the mile, then?”
“Not much over thirty. They’re liable to do two miles an hour, if they keep up,” Terry calculated.
The rail-truck was partly unloaded; at a bark from Boss Minkler a lot of Chinamen dumped the remaining rails at end o’ track—and back down track rumbled the car, its crew at a dead run, for the near supply while the rail-layers were working.