“Listen! Some of ’em are hitting the rails, again.”
Judging by the laughter, that was true. But they wormed their way through, to the fore. One after another the amateur spikers were whanging at the spikes. Terry espied Pat.
“Don’t we get a chance, Pat?”
“An’ haven’t yez hit a spike, yet?” Pat likewise was excited. “Sure, now, nayther have some o’ the rist of ’em. I wouldn’t pay the best two bits a day, on me gang. But take my sledge, now. There’s the wan silver spike from Nevady, a-waitin’, set in its hole. Hit her a whack apiece an’ niver mind whether it’s silver or iron. An’ if annywan says for yez to lay off, tell ’em Paddy Miles told yez to go ahead.”
George grabbed the sledge, and dived for the silver spike of the U. P. rail, opposite the U. P. gold spike.
“You first,” Terry panted. “Quick. Don’t you miss it.”
“I’m—not goin’—to—MISS—it,” hissed George, as his sledge came down—Whack! “There! Hit her a lick, yourself.”
Terry struck—Whack! Buried the silver spike.
“By Jiminy, we drove one spike, anyhow,” they proclaimed.
They had been none too soon. Only the last golden spike remained untouched, except for the light taps by President Stanford and Vice-President Huntington himself.