“Since all was straight before you went you needn’t bother,” Kit replied in a cheerful voice. “But put your feet on the box, I’m going to pull off your boots.”
Austin gave him a dull, puzzled look.
“You were on the tie-rod? I’ve a notion I came near to letting go; but I don’t remember much——”
“Oh, well,” said Kit, “it doesn’t matter, and the boys want me. I’ll help you to bed.”
He pulled off Austin’s clothes and put him in his bunk. Austin said nothing and after a few minutes Kit thought him asleep. He dared not stop, and throwing Austin’s torn slicker under some clothes, he got his own coat and faced the gale.
Some time after daybreak he started for the office. He was exhausted and the morning was very cold. The wind had dropped, the sky was clear, and the snow on the planks was hard. Shining icicles hung from the ironwork and Kit concluded winter had at length arrived. At the bridge-head a man stopped him.
“Did the pulley hit you, Mr. Carson? I reckoned she was going to knock you off the frame.”
“I got two or three knocks,” Kit replied with a laugh. “On the whole, I imagine cooking’s a softer job than running a bridge gang.”
He stopped for a few minutes at the bunkhouse, and then went to the office. Austin had got up and some color had come back to his skin. Kit pulled off his long boots and lighted a cigarette. The stove was red hot, and after the cold and strain he was willing to relax.
“How are you, Bob?” he asked.