The summer sun held a tyrannous hand on the dead, still heat of the woods, only lifted at night or when the clouds, loafing round the encircling hills, drew together grumbling, and, bursting, shot ragged flashes through the heavy air aslant the downright volley of the welcome rain. August saw the dull parallels of steel gaining length after length on the open right-of-way, which swung round the base of Timberland Mountain and ran north, vanishing in the distant haze of skyline.
One evening when the sounds of the railroad camps had died away in the sultriness preceding a thunderstorm which flickered its silent warnings across the western horizon, Bascomb, who had been silently listening to a somewhat heated discussion between David and Avery, proposed to Swickey that they stroll down to the edge of the woods.
“Just to cool off,” he said, “and get out of the zone of danger,” indicating David and Avery with a shrug.
Swickey, with a quiet glance at David, who was expounding a theory as to the rights of corporations in general and the N. M. & Q. especially, listlessly arose and walked down the hill with the young surveyor.
“Well,” he said, “they’ve fired me.”
“Fired you?” Swickey’s tone was incredulousness itself.
“Back to Boston. Been enjoying myself too much here. Besides, we need more money.”
“Oh, then Dave’s going to stay?” She was only partially successful in hiding her eagerness.
“Yes, Davy draws the long straw. Anyway, he’s worth two of me, here.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Swickey.