At the open door of the building Neale met Baxter face to face, and that worthy’s greeting left Neale breathless and aghast, yet thrilling with sheer gladness.
“What’re you up against?” asked Neale.
“The boss ‘ll talk to you. Get in there!” Baxter replied, and pushed Neale inside. It was a big room, full of smoke, noise, men, tables, papers. There were guns stacked under port-holes. Some one spoke to Neale, but he did not see who it was. All the faces he saw so swiftly appeared vague, yet curious and interested. Then Baxter halted him at a table. Once again Neale faced his chief. Baxter announced something. Neale did not hear the words plainly.
General Lodge looked older, sterner, more worn. He stood up.
“Hello, Neale!” he said, offering his hand, and the flash of a smile went over his grim face.
“Come in here,” continued the chief, and he led Neale into another room, of different aspect. It was small; the walls were of logs; new boards had been recently put in the floor; new windows had been cut; and it contained Indian blankets, chairs, a couch.
Here General Lodge bent a stern and piercing gaze upon his former lieutenant.
“Neale, you failed me when you quit your job,” he said. “You were my right-hand man. You quit me in my hour of need.”
“General, I—I was furious at that rotten commissioner deal,” replied Neale, choking. What he had done now seemed an offense to his chief. “My work was ordered done over!”
“Neale, that was nothing to what I’ve endured. You should have grit your teeth—and gone on. That five miles of reconstruction was nothing—nothing.”