“If they do keep it up, they’ll have time to spare. Maybe they’ll go straight on to the U. P. track, fourteen miles!”
The C. P. men were so well drilled that they worked without signals. “Plunk, plink, plink, plank,” sounded the rails, dropped as regularly as a clock ticks—a pair of rails every ten seconds! “Whang, whang, whang, whang whangity-whang, whang, whang!” clanged the sledges, with one continuous rapid-fire. The spades rang and the picks thudded, and the Chinamen grunted. Up to end o’ track, end o’ track, end o’ track again, rolled the iron-truck—every minute, as seemed, boomed back, shoved by its sweating crew, for another supply, and charged in through the midst of the pig-tailed, grunting ballasters, who flowed together again in its wake. The iron-train edged onward, ready.
Track Boss Minkler held the fore, darting from crew to crew, inspecting, scolding, praising, calling the attention of the gang bosses to now this, now that, and seeing that the rails did not lack. He was sweaty and grimy—worked as hard as any other man. Pat Miles could have done no more.
Chief Superintendent Crocker rode restlessly hither-thither, along the whole line from train to end o’ track—appeared to see nothing but the job, and he saw everything there.
“Lay to it, boys. Workee allee time chop-chop, John. No stopee till topside ten miles. Sabee?”
And the Chinamen answered, with shrill little yaps:
“Hi-yah, Meestee Clocky. Workee chop-chop, you bet.”
“Golly! At the third mile-stake, already,” said George, while the procession moved on. “’Tisn’t more than nine o’clock, either!”
“Shucks!” Terry blurted. “These C. P. fellows could build a whole track, grade and all, ten miles in a day, at the rate they’re going. Wonder if they’ll quit for noon.”
“They’ve got the dead-wood on Paddy Miles, sure,” George chuckled. “Look at him, with his mouth open and his pipe out!”