"And the days short."
"Yes, and nerve shorter yet," said Pat.
The remark was airily given, but the inference was plain. Lee took a step aside and stood staring across the capitol grounds, with brows knit, with lips compressed, the prey of struggling hopes and doubts.
"Pat," he said, turning.
"Well?"
"Do you think we could do it?"
"God knows; I don't. But we could give the job an awful whirl," the contractor stated.
"The thing looks impossible, preposterous, but if you see the slightest chance of success I want you to say so. Dirt moving is your game, not mine. Ninety days; that's thirteen weeks. Almost a mile a week. Can it be done? Can you do it?"
Pat at last threw away the cigar that refused to draw.
"With men and teams enough I could build a ditch to tide-water in that time," said he, with sudden energy. "Men and scrapers, scrapers and men—that's all. You can rip the insides out of any dirt job on earth if you have the crews. Of course, it takes money, big wages, to get and hold them."