“For they’ve gone to slape on the job; an’ b’ gorry when they wake up they’re like to see a U. Pay. sidin’ in place, an’ the U. Pay. ownin’ the switchin’ rights at the meetin’-place terminal. We lost Humboldt Wells, mebbe, but we’ll not lose Promontory Point if we can help it.”
Only the small gap of two rails’ length remained to be filled in before trains might pass over the new Pacific Railway between the Missouri River and the Pacific coast. A mere fifty-eight feet, beyond the telegraph pole that proudly floated a United States flag (hoisted there by orders of General Dodge), broke the iron trail of 1,770 miles. The tracks could be connected up in a jiffy.
The Stanford special car, which was the private car of Mr. Charles Crocker, the C. P. contractor and construction boss, stood yonder upon the C. P. siding spur. It was gaily decorated; but all the steps on one side had been torn away in the trip out from Sacramento. A careless Chinaman, felling timber above the track, had landed a log upon the rails, and the Stanford special, of only engine and car, had just escaped a bad wreck.
The car had got through, though; and here it was, guarded by the C. P. track-layer boss, H. H. Minkler, and a squad of armed track men. Those gold spikes would be a great prize for some of the “floaters” in Promontory.
Terry being a friend, Mr. Minkler obligingly unlocked the car and ushered him inside. There was nobody here except a timid Chinaman cook. Everybody else was sight-seeing.
Mr. Minkler removed the canvas cover from the tie.
“What do you think o’ that?”
“It sure is a beauty.” So it was—red and polished like true mahogany, and set with a silver plate on the side. “Where does it go, Mr. Minkler?”
“Read the plate and you’ll see.”
Terry stooped and read.