“Good night,” said Young Van.
“Good night,” said Scribner; “I’ll ride on with you as far as my division to-morrow, Mr. Tiffany. I can give you a fresh horse there.”
The chief engineer of the S. & W. disappeared between the flaps of Carhart’s tent. They could hear him throwing off his clothes and getting into bed. Another moment and they heard him snoring. They stood gazing off down the grade.
“Well, what do you think of that?” said Scribner. Young Van looked at his companion. “I think this,” he replied: “I wouldn’t miss this work and this fight under Paul Carhart for five years’ pay.”
Scribner nodded. “The loss of an engineer’s pay, Gus, wouldn’t make much difference one way or the other,” he replied, and his face lighted up with enthusiasm. “But it’s a great game!”
And so it was that something like two days after Carhart’s arrival on “mile 109,” Tiffany, a little the worse for wear, but still able to ride and eat and sleep and swear, came slowly down the slope into the camp, where Flint was hovering midway between the present and the hereafter. He found the chief of construction deep in a somewhat complicated problem, and after a bite to eat he climbed up the ridge behind the camp to the tent which Carhart was occupying.
“Well, Paul, how goes it?” said he.
“First-rate. How much do you know?”
“Precious little.”