Winton smiled.
“I haven't any notion of stampeding. As it happens, I'm only a day ahead of time. I should have made this run to-morrow of my own accord to have a look at the extension grade. You will find me on the rear platform when you want me.”
“Good enough,” was the reply; and Winton went to his post of observation.
Greatly to his satisfaction, he found that the trip over the C. G. R. answered every purpose of a preliminary inspection of the Utah grade beyond Argentine. For seventeen of the twenty miles the two lines were scarcely more than a stone's throw apart, and when Biggin joined him at the junction above Carbonate he had his note-book well filled with the necessary data.
“Make it, all right?” inquired the friendly bailiff.
“Yes, thanks. Have another cigar?”
“Don't care if I do. Say, that old fire-eater back yonder in the private car has got a mighty pretty gal, ain't he?”
“The young lady is his niece,” said Winton, wishing that Mr. Biggin would find other food for comment.
“I don't care; she's pretty as a Jersey two-year-old.”
“It's a fine day,” observed Winton; and then, to background Miss Carteret effectually as a topic: “How do the people of Argentine feel about the opposition to our line?”