“Sit down and have a smoke,” he said. “You have plenty of time. Was Kermode a friend of yours?”
Prescott looked about the place. He saw that it was a filtering station for the treatment of water unfit for locomotive use.
“Thanks,” he responded. “I knew Kermode pretty well; but I needn’t stop you.”
“Oh, don’t mind that!” grinned the other. “We’re not paid by the piece on this job. Besides, they’ve some chisels for us on your train and we haven’t got them yet.”
“You’re English, aren’t you?” Prescott asked. “Are you stopping out here?”
“Not much!” exclaimed the other with scorn. “What d’you take me for? There’s more in life than whacking rivets and holding the caulker. When a man has finished his work in this wilderness, what has he to do? There’s no music halls, no nothing; only the dismal prairie that makes your eyes sore to look at.”
Prescott had heard other Englishmen express themselves in a similar fashion, and he laughed.
“If that’s what you think of the country, why did you come here?”
“Big wages,” replied the first man, entering the building. “Funny, isn’t it, that when you want good work done you have to send for us? Every machine-shop in your country’s full of labor-saving and ingenious tools, but when you build bridges with them they fall down, and I’ve seen tanks that wouldn’t hold water.”
“Oh, well,” said Prescott, divided between amusement and impatience, “this isn’t to the point. I understand Kermode was here with you?”