It had developed that there was hatred between these men. Colohan’s face turned fiery red, and, looming over Coffee, he looked the quick-tempered and dangerous nature of his class. “Coffee, I’m sayin’ this to your face right now. I ain’t deep in this Number Ten deal.... I obeyed orders—an’ damn strange ones, some of them.”
Neale intervened and perhaps prevented a clash. “Don’t quarrel, men. Sure there’s bound to be a little friction for a day or so. But we’ll soon get to working.”
Colohan strode away without another word. His brawny shoulders were expressive of a doubt.
“Get me my plans for Number Ten construction,” said Neale, pleasantly, for he meant to do his share at making the best of it.
Blake brought the plans and spread them out on the table.
“Will you both go over them with me?” inquired Neale.
“What’s the use?” returned Coffee, disgustedly. “Neale, you’re thick-headed.”
“Yes, I guess so,” rejoined Neale, constrainedly. “That’s why General Lodge sent me up here—over your clear heads.”
No retort was forthcoming from the two disgruntled engineers. Neale went into the tent and drew a seat up to the table. He wanted to be alone—to study his plans—to think about the whole matter. He found his old figures and drawings as absorbing as a good story; still, there came breaks in his attention. Blake walked into the tent several times, as if to speak, and each time he retired silently. Again, some messenger brought a telegram to one of the engineers outside, and it must have caused the whispered colloquy that followed. Finally they went away, and Neale, getting to work in earnest, was not disturbed until called for supper.
Neale ate at a mess-table with the laborers, and enjoyed his meal. The Paddies always took to him. One thing he gathered early was the fact that Number Ten bridge was a joke with the men. This sobered Neale and he left the cheery, bantering company for a quiet walk alone.