That train carried hundreds of men, tons of steel rails, thousands of ties; and also it was equipped to feed the workers and to fight Indians. It ran to the end of the rails, about forty miles out of Roaring City.
Neale sought out Reilly, the boss. This big Irishman was in the thick of the start of the day—which was like a battle. Neale waited in the crowd, standing there in his shirt-sleeves, with the familiar bustle and color strong as wine to his senses. At last Reilly saw him and shoved out a huge paw.
“Hullo, Neale! I’m glad to see ye.... They tell me ye did a dom’ foine job.”
“Reilly, I need work,” said Neale.
“But, mon—ye was shot!” ejaculated the boss.
“I’m all right.”
“Ye look thot an’ no mistake.... Shure, now, ye ain’t serious about work? You—that’s chafe of all thim engineer jobs?”
“I want to work with my hands. Let me heave ties or carry rails or swing a sledge—for just a few days. I’ve explained to General Lodge. It’s a kind of vacation for me.”
Reilly gazed with keen, twinkling eyes at Neale. “Ye can’t be drunk an’ look sober.”
“Reilly, I’m sober—and in dead earnest,” appealed Neale. “I want to go back—be in the finish—to lay some rails—drive some spikes.”