“What you going to do?”
“Send the news. Connect up my table yonder at the track with San Francisco and Omaha, and tell the United States what’s happening. Today’s the day when I own the whole system; everything’s to be kept open, waiting on Yours Truly.”
Off limped Harry, all business. Terry yelled after him.
“We’re going to climb your pole, then.”
“All right. You can borrow it, but don’t you monkey with my wires.”
The people around seemed to have no thought, yet, of seizing upon the pole. They were too engaged in staring about.
“Good eye,” George praised, as following Terry he scrambled up the ladder and squirmed the rest of the way to the cross-arm. “Say! This is shore great. Where’s the place for the last spike, now?”
“Square below. It’ll be solid gold. I saw it. Seven inches long, with a nugget for a head, and worth $400. It’s from California, for President Stanford to drive. And there’s another, not so big, for Vice-President Durant. I saw the last tie, too, and it’s a dandy—all polished like mahogany, with a silver plate tacked to it and holes ready for the spikes. Arizona and Nevada and Idaho are giving silver spikes——”
“I know,” George interrupted. “I read the whole program in the Ogden paper. The governors are to make speeches, and so are the U. P. and C. P. folks; and the telegraph line’s connected up with Harry’s operator’s outfit so that bells will strike out East and on the Coast when the last spike’s driven. Chicago and New York and Boston and Washington and New Orleans and St. Louis and Philadelphia will all be notified at the same time by Omaha, and Sacramento and San Francisco will get it direct. And old 119, and old Jupiter of the C. P., will touch noses.”
“It’s a boss place to see from, anyhow,” observed Terry.