“It's no use shutting our eyes to the fact, Jack,” said Adams one evening, when his chief was making ready for his regular descent upon the Rosemary. “We shall have to put night shifts at work on that shale-slide if we hope ever to get past it with the rails.”
“Hang the shale!” was the impatient rejoinder. “I'm no galley slave.”
Adams' slow smile came and went in cynical ripplings.
“It is pretty difficult to say precisely what you are just now. But I can prophesy what you are going to be if you don't wake up and come alive.”
Having no reply to this, Adams went back to the matter of night shifts.
“If you will authorize it, I'll put a night gang on and boss it myself. What do you say?”
“I say you are no end of a good fellow, Morty. And that's the plain fact. I'll do as much for you some time.”
“I'll be smashed if you will—you'll never get the chance. When I let a pretty girl make a fool of me—”
But the door of the dinkey slammed behind the outgoing one, and the prophet of evil was left to organize his night assault on the shale-slide, and to command it as best he could.
So, as we say, the days, days of stubborn toil with the enthusiasm taken out, slipped away unfruitful. Of the entire Utah force Adams alone held himself up to the mark, and being only second in command, he was unable to keep the bad example of the chief from working like a leaven of inertness among the men. Branagan voiced the situation in rich brogue one evening when Adams had exhausted his limited vocabulary of abuse on the force for its apathy. “'Tis no use, ava, Misther Adams. If you was the boss himself 'twould be you as would put the comether on thim too quick. But it's 'like masther, like mon.' The b'ys all know that Misther Winton don't care a damn; and they'll not be hurtin' thimselves wid the wurrk.”