“Reade, you will take full charge here,” continued Timothy Thurston. “Notify Mr. Howe, too, at once. You and he will not need to conflict with each other in any way. Also notify the president of the road, at the New York offices. Wire him at once. Now—-thank you all, gentlemen. I believe I shall have to stop and go to sleep.”
“Get out, all of you,” came firmly from bearded, middle-aged Dr. Gitney. “You fellows now have your acting chief to look to, and you don’t need to bother a sick man any more.”
When Tom Reade stepped outside, on the heels of the others, he certainly didn’t feel as though treading on air. Instead, he wondered if he were going to reel and totter, so dizzy did he feel over the sudden realization of the responsibilities he had taken upon himself.
“Give us our orders, chief,” begged Matt Rice, with a grin, when Tom joined the others over by the mess tent.
“Wait a few moments,” urged Reade. “I don’t really know whether I am chief or a joke.”
“Great Scott! After lecturing me the way you did, you are not going to get cold feet, are you?” gasped Jack Rutter.
“You’ll know what I mean before long,” Tom murmured. “I signaled to Dr. Gitney to follow me as soon as he could.”
“How does it seem to know that you have only to beckon and that men must follow?” laughed Joe Grant. It is doubtful whether Tom, gazing at the chief’s big tent, even heard.
Presently Dr. Gitney stepped outside and came toward them.
“Doctor,” began Tom, “will you give me your word of honor that Mr. Thurston is in his right mind?”