Governor Stanford shouted vigorously.
“Stand aside, everybody. The path-finders of the two roads—the men who led the rails to the meeting-point: Chief Engineer General Grenville M. Dodge of the Union Pacific, and Chief Engineer Samuel S. Montague of the Central Pacific, will land the final blows upon the last spike.”
The two engineers stood, each with a sledge.
“I first?” politely queried General Dodge.
“No, general. The last blow shall be yours. You have come the farthest,” Mr. Montague insisted.
He landed easily; made a good shot, and the nugget-headed spike was sunk two-thirds way. Mr. Montague stepped aside; with a bow and a smile the general took position; landed, and the spike had sunk to its battered nugget.
“Let’s skip to our pole, so as to see when the engines touch noses,” George proposed. He and Terry scuttled for their pole, again. Up they scrambled, for the cross-arm—a very fine place.
The rails had been firmed. The people were being forced back, to clear the track. Old 119, of the U. P., Terry’s father and Fireman Bill Sweeny—yes, and George’s father and Virgie also—in the cab, and old Jupiter, of the C. P., had been unhooked from their trains; they whistled—Toot! Toot!—and slowly advanced toward each other, bringing the cheering track men and graders who clung to every inch that was not too hot.
Slowly, slowly, they crept forward, the one over the U. P. rails, the other over the C. P. rails; and just at the gold-and-silver-studded laurel tie they touched pilots.
Terry’s father swung out from his cab, to the pilot, a bottle of champagne in his hand. The engineer of old Jupiter swung out, opposite, with a bottle. They reached aside, and each broke his bottle upon the other’s cow-catcher, so that the wine flowed down upon the joint and tie.