CHAPTER XVI
A NIGHT OF DISASTER
BILLY looked after him a moment thinking it rather a pleasant fancy to call mother and daughter “the girls,” but the situation quickly claimed his attention. It was still light, and May Nell might come to the garage and discover him; he would go to see the viaduct.
He went by the lower gate and skirted the river, a river in volume, though called Tum-wah Creek. As he walked he mentally constructed the scene as it would look when Mr. Smith’s enterprises possessed the valley,—he heard the hum of mills and factories; on the peaceful lake below saw ships entering the canal from the Sound to load for ports, for the world’s far ports.
He looked back at the beautiful mansion; it would be a pity to see it desecrated, made into a boarding-house, perhaps. Yet Mr. Smith would move his summer home farther on. It was the way of this vast growing city,—to-day’s lovely suburb was to-morrow’s mart of business.
Billy had barely walked around the viaduct, marvelling at the swiftness and secrecy of its building, when a low whistle halted him, and the tramp-philosopher came from the woods.
“Hello, Billy! Back in time for the rumpus, are you?”
“What rumpus?”
“Hasn’t the boss put you wise? It’s coming sure.”
“What’s coming?”
“There’ll be a row down there to-night when the old man starts to close that gap in the rails.”