It was Carhart speaking, in the same quiet, distinct manner. The sound of his voice broke the tension. The men all looked up, even the nerveless Dimond. To Young Van they were oddly like a room full of schoolboys as they stood silently waiting for Flagg to obey. The giant cook himself was very like a schoolboy, as he glanced uneasily around, caught no sign of fight in the obedient eyes about him, sought counsel in the ground, the sky, the engines standing on the track, then finally slouched forward.
Young Van caught himself on the verge of laughing out. He saw Flagg advance a way and pause. Carhart waited. Flagg took a few more steps, then paused again, with the look of a man who feels that he has been bullied into a false position, yet cannot hit upon the way out.
“Well,” he said, glowering down on the figure of the engineer in charge—and very thin and short Carhart looked before him—“well, what do you want of me?”
For reply Carhart coolly looked him over. Then he snatched up a piece of scantling, whirled it once around his head, and caught Jack Flagg squarely on his deep, well-muscled chest. The cook staggered back, swung his arms wildly to recover his balance, failed, and fell flat, striking on the back of his head.
But he was up in an instant, and he started forward, swearing copiously and reaching for his hip pocket.
Young Van saw the motion. He knew that Paul Carhart seldom carried a weapon, and he felt that the safety of them all lay with himself. Accordingly he leaped to the ground, ran to the side of his chief, whipped out a revolver, and levelled it at Jack Flagg.
“Hands up!” he cried. “Hands up!”
“Gus,” cried Carhart, in a disgusted voice, “put that thing up!”
Young Van, crestfallen, hesitated; then dropped his arm.
“Now, Flagg,” said the chief, tossing the scantling to one side, “you clear out. You’d better do it fast, or the men’ll finish where I left off.”