Young Van hurried back with the order. Carhart quietly resumed the problems before him.
Old Van, when he received the chief’s message, swore roundly.
“What’s Paul thinking of!” he growled. “He ought to know that this is only the tip of the wedge. They’ll come up another ten per cent before the week’s out.”
But Old Van failed to do justice to the promptness of Jack Flagg. At three in the afternoon the demand came; and for the second time that day the scrapers lay idle, and the mules wagged their ears in lazy comfort.
“Well!” cried Old Van, sharply. “Well! It’s what I told you, isn’t it! Now, I suppose you still believe in running to Paul with the story.”
“Yes,” replied the younger brother, firmly, “of course. He’s the boss.”
“All right, sir! All right, sir!” The veteran engineer turned away in disgust as his brother started rapidly back to the camp. The laborers, meanwhile, covered with sweat and dust, tantalized by the infrequent sips of water doled out to them, lay panting in a long, irregular line on the newly turned earth.
“Well, Gus,” said Carhart, with a wry smile, at sight of the dusty figure before the tent, “are they at it again?”
“They certainly are.”
“They don’t mean to lose any time, do they? How much is it now?”