"Now, Joe," as he got down beside Conniston, "you can unhook your horses. I am going to be here this morning."
Joe drove away to where the camp horses had been picketed. And Mr. Crawford turned to Conniston.
"This is going to make it hard, Conniston," he said, slowly, his face and voice alike very grave. "It is the one thing which I had hoped would not happen. But we've got to make the most of it." He paused suddenly, and his keen eyes ran thoughtfully from one to another of the four gangs of men. "They're working all right," he ended, his eyes coming back to Conniston's.
"Yes. They're good men. The four foremen are as capable as a man could ask for."
"Were they working this way when you got here?"
"No. They were waiting for orders."
Mr. Crawford nodded, making no reply.
"I don't know," Conniston offered after a moment, "that there is any immediate call for worry. I think that I can handle them until Truxton gets around—"
"Truxton won't get around!"
"You mean—"