CHAPTER III.
UP THE SAN FERNANDO ROAD.
Early next morning, Nash left the hotel and made for the Southern Pacific Station on Fifth Street. Before noon he had stepped off the train in the quaint and sleepy little town of San Fernando. This place marked the terminal of the proposed Los Angeles Aqueduct, and the huge reservoir in course of construction at the mouth of the San Francisquito Cañon was to hold in check and in readiness the millions of gallons of water which the citizens of Los Angeles might command at the turn of a faucet.
In the depot for supplies, the hurry and bustle at certain points interested Nash. The sight of the huge steam shovels, the towering derricks, the endless cars of cement, and the sections of steel piping all served to quicken his pulse and bring the color to his cheeks.
To find the location of Camp 47 was an easy task, and in an hour after the train had set him down, Nash was riding on a load of cement up the rock-hewn road, and behind eight sweating mules that apparently knew more about their business than did the driver, Joe Giogi, a swearing, black-eyed, bareheaded son of Italy.
“You want Forty-seven?” he questioned swiftly. “Sure t’ing! I take you there. You come with me. Long ride—maybe four hour.”
So Nash swung up to the high seat beside Joe, and they started amid a volley of imprecations from the latter, the creak of the straining harness, and the encouraging shouts of the laborers in the little yard.
“You come to look for a job, maybe?” inquired the driver, once they were riding smoothly, and the town was dropping away behind them.
“Maybe, yes,” answered Nash, evading a direct response.
The weather-scarred, sun-blackened fingers of the driver skillfully arranged the dozen or more reins, and Nash marveled at the ease and dexterity with which it was accomplished. Finally Joe spoke again, this time more seriously.