Preceded by their chainmen, Rutter and Reade trudged along the trail for something like a mile.
“Halt,” ordered Jack Rutter. “Reade, write your autograph on that stake and begin.”
Tom stepped over to the transit, adjusting it carefully and setting the hanging plummet on dead centre with the nail head in the top of the short stake.
“Never set up a transit again,” directed Rutter, “without making sure that your levels are absolutely true, and that your vernier arrangement is in order.”
“I don’t believe you’ll ever catch me at that, Mr. Rutter,” Tom answered, busying himself with the finer adjustments of the transit. “Mr. Price pounded that into me every time that he took me out in the field.”
“Nevertheless,” went on Rutter, “I have known older engineers than you, Reade, who became careless, and their carelessness cost their employers a lot of wasted time and money. Now, you——-”
At this juncture Jack Rutter suddenly crouched behind a low ledge at the right.
“Get behind here, quickly, Reade!” called Rutter. “Bad Pete is up the hillside, about two hundred yards from you——-”
“I haven’t time to bother with him, now,” Tom broke in composedly.
“Duck fast, boy! Pete has an ugly grin on his face, and he’s reaching for his pistol. He’s got it out—-he’s going to shoot!” whispered Rutter, drawing his head down where it would be safe from flying bullets.