Suddenly a voice, harsh and strident with passion, rose above the thud of the picks and the clang of metal.
“Who's in charge here, and what in blazes do you mean by cutting my tracks?”
Bryce turned in time to behold Colonel Seth Pennington leap from an automobile and advance upon Buck Ogilvy. Ogilvy held a lantern up to the Colonel's face and surveyed Pennington calmly.
“Colonel,” he began with exasperating politeness, “—I presume you are Colonel Pennington—my name is Buchanan P. Ogilvy, and I am in charge of these operations. I am the vice-president and general manager of the N.C.O., and I am engaged in the blithe task of making a jump-crossing of your rails. I had hoped to accomplish this without your knowledge or consent, but now that you are here, that hope, of course, has died a-bornin'. Have a cigar.” And he thrust a perfecco under the Colonel's nose. Pennington struck it to the ground, and on the instant, half a dozen rough rascals emptied their shovels over him. He was deluged with dirt.
“Stand back, Colonel, stand back, if you please. You're in the way of the shovellers,” Buck Ogilvy warned him soothingly.
Bryce Cardigan came over, and at sight of him Pennington choked with fury. “You—you—” he sputtered, unable to say more.
“I'm the N.C.O.,” Bryce replied. “Nice little fiction that of yours about the switch-engine being laid up in the shops and the Laurel Creek bridge being unsafe for this big mogul.” He looked Pennington over with frank admiration. “You're certainly on the job, Colonel. I'll say that much for you. The man who plans to defeat you must jump far and fast, or his tail will be trod on.”
“You've stolen my engine,” Pennington almost screamed. “I'll have the law on you for grand larceny.”
“Tut-tut! You don't know who stole your engine. For all you know, your own engine-crew may have run it down here.”
“I'll attend to you, sir,” Pennington replied, and he turned to enter Mayor Poundstone's little flivver.