For answer the man addressed as Fred slowly produced an iron stake about eighteen inches long and somewhat less than an inch in diameter.
“What kind of shrubbery do you call that, Tompkins?” he demanded.
“Well, it ain’t buffalo grass, an’ it ain’t brome grass, an’ I don’t figger it’s alfalfa,” said Tompkins, meditatively.
“No, and it ain’t a grub-stake,” Fred replied, with some sarcasm. “It’s a iron stake, growin’ right in a nice little clump of grass, and I run on to it and bust my cuttin’-bar all to—that is, all to pieces,” he completed rather lamely, taking Zen into his glance.
“I think I follow you,” she said, with a smile. “Can you fix it here?”
“Nope. Have to go to town for a new one. Two days’ lost time, when every hour counts. Hello! Here comes someone else.”
Another of the teamsters was drawing into camp. “Hello, Fred!” he said, upon coming up with his fellow workman, “you in too? I had a bit of bad luck. I run smash on to an iron stake right there in the ground and crumpled my knife like so much soap.”
“I did worse,” said Fred, with a grin. “I bust my cuttin’-bar.”
The two men exchanged a steady glance for half a minute. Then the new-comer gave vent to a long, low whistle.
“So that’s the way of it,” he said. “That’s the kind of war Mr. Landson makes. Well, we can fight back with the same weapons, but that won’t cut the hay, will it?”