The exhausted track-gang tossed down their tools, and staggered aside, to drink, and wash, and throw themselves down, also, for a breather until the cooks beat the dinner gongs.
The dinner was served upon long tables set up in a jiffy in the open air—but the Chinamen squatted around their big kettles of rice and stew and tea. The U. P. officials dined with President Stanford and the other C. P. officials at a separate mess, near the headquarters private car.
“What are you going to do? See it through?” asked George, of Terry, while they cleaned their platters.
“I dunno. Guess there’s no doubt about those ten miles.”
“Well, I should say not! Only four miles yet, and five hours to do them in. But let’s stick around.”
“All right. We’ll stay as long as General Dodge and the two Casements stay. Down on the plains we used to think three miles was a big day’s work; but, gee, these Central gangs can double that in half a day!”
“So could the U. P. gangs, if they wanted to show off,” George asserted. “Look what we did on the Red Desert, and in the mountains last winter. We could start in and lay twelve miles tomorrow, if we had the chance.”
At two-thirty o’clock prompt the whistle of the iron-train tooted one shrill blast. The C. P. track-crews had been stationed for five minutes, poised and waiting. The sweat had dried on them—they were a bit stiff and tired; but they were game for the finish. Like a machine when a lever has been pulled, at the sound of the whistle they all broke into motion again.
Some of the spectators left. It seemed to be a certainty that the ten miles would be won, although of course there might be a hitch. Four miles to be added to six, in the shank of a day, was a chore.
On marched end o’ track, carried by these C. P. cracks, and escorted by the expectant crowd; to the seven-mile stake—and the eight-mile stake—but backs and arms, and eyes also, were getting tired.