“No, couldn’t find any snag, Baxter, old boy... and the reason is because there’s no snag to find.”
Baxter stared and his worn face reddened. “Boy, somethin’s gone to your head,” he retorted.
“Wal, I should smile, as Larry would say.”
Baxter pounded the table. “Neale, it’s no smiling matter,” he said harshly. “You come back here, your eye and mind—fresh, but even so, it can’t be you make light of this difficulty. You can’t—you can’t—”
“But I do!” cried Neale, his manner subtly changing.
Baxter got up. His shaking hand rustled a paper he held. “I know you—of old. You’ve tormented me often. You’re a boy... But here—this—this thing has stumped me. I’ve had no one to help... and I’m getting old—this damned railroad has made me old. If—if you saw a way out—tell me—”
Baxter faltered. Indeed he had aged. Neale saw the growth of the great railroad with its problems in the face and voice of the old engineer.
“Listen,” said Neale, swiftly. “A half-mile down from where you struck your snag we’ll change the course of that stream... We’ll change the line—set a compound curve by intersections—and we’ll get much less than a ninety-foot grade to the mile.”
Then he turned to General Lodge. “Chief, Baxter had so many problems—so much on his mind—that he couldn’t think... The work will go on tomorrow.”
“But, Neale, you went out without any instrument,” protested the chief.