It was all that was needed, and at once every man responded. Down the road they marched, their great boots making a heavy thud as they moved along. Into the post office they tramped, and stood around while the few letters were doled out. For Jake, there was one, written by a child's trembling hand. Eagerly he opened it, and, as he read, his face underwent a remarkable change. The rugged lines softened, and when he turned to the men waiting for him, there was no gruffness in his voice.
"'Spose we git our money, lads, an' hike back," he remarked.
"Ay, ay," was the response, but in several hearts there was a keen longing to remain.
Right in front of the Company's office stood the Flood Gate Tavern. The proprietor had been expecting the drivers and was well stocked up. He saw them coming into town and watched them enter the office for their money.
"They'll be here soon, Joe," he said to his assistant, "an' mind ye don't let an opportunity slip. Them bottles must go tonight. I know there'll be lively times about here. Them d--n temperance workers are dead set agin us, an' it looks as if they'd make trouble. But we'll win out tonight, and they can go to ----. Say, here they come. Now for the time--an' money. Oh, they're jist achin' to give me their wages. They won't forgit old Ned, that's sure. Ha, ha!" and the saloon-keeper rubbed his hands with glee.
The drivers were outside the office now, and were casting furtive glances across the way. Big Jake saw the looks and knew the longing which dwelt in their hearts. He drew forth his pipe, stuck his little finger deliberately into the bowl to see how much tobacco it contained.
"Boys," he began, "have yez anything on fer the night?"
"No," came the somewhat surly response, "unless we go over there."
"Don't go," said Jake. "We've spent too much there in past years. Let's save our money fer them wot needs it at home. Let me tell ye somethin'. Comin' down the road from the boom to-night I felt like seven devils. I was jist longin' to git into that saloon an' have a big drink. But as luck 'ud have it I went into the post office first, an' found this here letter. An' who is it from, d'ye think? From me own little sick lassie at home. Look at the writin', boys. Ain't it fine? An' what a letter it is. She says she's waitin' fer me, an' counts the days until I come. Listen to these words: 'Don't go near the saloon, papa. Come straight home, an' bring the money to pay fer the farm. I pray fer you every day, papa, an' I pray fer all the men on the drive, and fer that poor little boy who got hurt.' Ain't them great words, boys?"
"Ay, ay," came the reply, and into several hearts throbbed a desire to be stronger men, and a few brushed their sleeves across their eyes.