“Benton!” exclaimed the chief, bitterly. “I am responsible for Benton. This great work of my life is a hell on wheels, moving on and on.... Your cowboy friend has no doubt found his place—and his match—in Benton.”
“Larry has broken loose from me—from any last restraint.”
“Neale, what have you been doing?”
And at that Neale dropped his head.
“Idling in the camps—drifting from one place to the next—drinking, gambling, eh?”
“I’m ashamed to say, sir, that of late I have been doing just those things,” replied Neale, and he raised his gaze to his chief’s.
“But you haven’t been associating with those camp women!” exclaimed General Lodge, with his piercing eyes dark on Neale.
“No!” cried Neale. The speech had hurt him.
“I’m glad to hear that—gladder than you can guess. I was afraid—But no matter.... What you did do is bad enough. You ought to be ashamed. A young man with your intelligence, your nerve, your gifts! I have not had a single man whose chances compared with yours. If you had stuck you’d be at the head of my engineer corps right now. Baxter is played out. Boone is ill. Henney had to take charge of the shops in Omaha.... And you, with fortune and fame awaiting you, throw up your job to become a bum... to drink and gamble away your life in these rotten camps!”
General Lodge’s scorn flayed Neale.