A day or two afterwards he carried a tub of potatoes to a shady spot under the trees, and sitting down in the chopped branches, sharpened his knife on his boot. The bridge gang was not fastidious, and the knife was dull. His clothes were greasy and his skin was not clean, for he had recently scraped the stove flues, and the soap was not very good. Then he had burned his hand and to play the fiddle hurt, but in the morning he must play the Highland chieftain’s march. The march began to get monotonous, and on the whole Kit thought when the construction boss returned and sent him off he would be resigned to go.
By and by he heard steps and looked up. Gordon, whose children he had amused on board the cars, stopped in front of the potato tub. He threw down the pack he carried, and when he studied Kit his eyes twinkled.
“You made it! A fellow at the settlement reckoned I’d find you at the bridge.”
“I arrived two or three days ago, but I’m not staying long.”
“Don’t you like your job?”
“The trouble is, I haven’t got a job. Anyhow, I’m not on the pay-roll. My business is to play the fiddle mornings and evenings. Between times I carry coal, cut potatoes, and clean the stove, so to speak, for relaxation.”
“Something fresh?” said Gordon. “In the Old Country you didn’t carry coal.”
“At an English shipyard the trucks discharge into the furnace hoppers. All the same, at the beginning I used a forge hammer.”
“Now you talk!” said Gordon. “If you were at a shipyard I guess I can fix you. We’ll go along and see the smith.”
“I saw the foreman and admitted I was not a smith. He stated he had no use for a roustabout.”