Young Van whistled, then recovered himself. “All right, Mr. Carhart,” he said. “Two miles is good. Beginning to-day, I suppose?”
“Beginning to-day.”
The chief spent very little time on himself. He was soon out and riding along the grade, showing no nervousness, yet making it plain to every man on the job that he meant to give an exhibition of “the fanciest track-laying ever seen in these United States.” That was the way Young Van, in the exuberance of his new-found spirits, expressed it to the foreman of the iron squad.
But even Young Van’s enthusiasm was not equal to the facts. When the night whistle blew, and the dripping workmen dropped their picks and sledges, and rails, and ties, and reins, and sat down to breathe before washing up for supper,—there was water for washing now,—the conductor of the material train called to Young Van, and waved toward a stake beside the track. “See that stick,” he shouted.
“Yes, I see it.”
“Well, sir,”—the conductor was excited too,—“I’ve been setting up one of those things for every time we moved ahead a train length. My train’s a little over a thousand foot long, and—and how many of those sticks do you suppose I’ve set up since morning? Give a guess now!”
“I should say eight or ten. We’ve been getting over the ground pretty rapidly.”
“No, sir! No, sir! Fifteen there were, fifteen of ’em!”