It was a cold, wet and tedious job, the grappling and the raising, but his derricks were strong and his rigging plentiful. Moreover, the water was not deep.
All the material that could not be recovered by the grapples was duplicated by means of quick replies to wired orders, and the work of transportation across the lake was successfully completed.
It was well into a warm May, and his men for the last week had been moving soil and building culverts before the case of Col. Gideon Ward was brought to Parker's attention in a manner requiring action. One evening just after dusk his foreman scratched on the flap of the engineer's tent, in which he was now living at Poquette.
“Come in!” he called.
The canvas was lifted and a man entered. Parker turned the reflector of his lantern on the visitor.
“Joshua Ward!” he exclaimed, as he started up and seized the old man's outstretched hand.
He led him to a camp-stool. They looked at each other for a time in silence. Tears trembled on Joshua's eyelashes, and he passed his knotted hand over his face before he spoke.
“Mr. Parker,” he said, tremulously, “I've come to bring ye money to pay for every cent's worth o' damage to property 'an loss o' time an' everything.” He laid a package in the young man's hand. “Help yourself,” he quavered. “I'm goin' to trust to your honesty, for I'm certain I can. Take what's right. Gid and I don't know anythin' about railroads an' what such things as you lost are worth. All we can do is to show that we mean to square things the best we can now. Gid's sorry now, Mr. Parker, he's sorry—sorry—sorry—poor Gid!” The old man sobbed outright.
“Did he—” The young man paused, half-fearing to ask the question.
Joshua again ran his rough palm across his eyes. Then, in dumb grief, he set the edge of his right hand against his left wrist, the left hand to the right wrist, and then marked a place on each leg above the ankle.