Higher rose the hot sun; still the rails clanked, and the sledges whanged, and the iron-truck rumbled, and the picks thudded, and the spades scraped, and ever and anon the two trains tooted their “coming up” signal. The air fairly quivered with action.
The sight was fascinating: the rail-layers, four on a side, always on the run; the gaugers, clapping their gauges to each pair of rails as soon as dropped; the rail-truck, with its load projecting fore and aft, and its pusher crew straining with bowed backs; the spike and bolt placers, who never straightened but scurried, head down, on the heels of the pushers; the Chinese sledge men and wrench men, pressing closely; the two double lines of ballasters, as busy and as orderly as marching ants; Boss Minkler and Big Boss Crocker prancing and urging; the iron-train dumping ahead of time and pulling out for more; and all the grassy, sagy slope, under a blue sky and fringed by desert mountains, thronged with the intent spectators wearing every sort of garb, from Governor Stanford’s broad-cloth and General Dodge’s corduroys, down to the U. P. red-flannel shirts and the C. P. cotton blouses.
“Great Scott! More than five miles, and they aren’t going to stop for noon,” Terry gasped.
They didn’t. They went right along, for another hour—they went along, until on a sudden Mr. Crocker reined his horse at end o’ track, raised his hand, dropped it sharply, as if driving a lance—
“That’ll do. Knock off.”
The men straightened, and stared about dazed, while they wiped their brows.
“The six-mile stake, and the new station of Victory,” shouted Mr. Crocker, to the crowd around. “One thirty o’clock. Six miles of track laid in six hours. We’ll take an hour’s rest.”
“B’ jabers, yez’ve earned it,” Pat bawled, just as a great cheer answered the announcement. “Take two hours; take thray.”
Mr. Crocker again raised his hand, for silence.
“There’ll be dinner for all, right here. Superintendent Campbell is bringing up the boarding-train.”