Some
few miles from camp the train halted at a place where stone-work and
filling awaited the laborers. Neale was again interested, in spite
of himself. Yet his love for that railroad was quite as hopeless as
other things in his life.
These laborers were picked men, all soldiers, and many Irish; they
stacked their guns before taking up shovels and bars.
"Dom me if it ain't me ould fri'nd Neale!" exclaimed a familiar
voice.
And there stood Casey, with the same old grin, the same old black
pipe.
Neale's first feeling of pleasure at seeing the old flagman was
counteracted by one of dismay at the possibility of coming in
contact with old acquaintances. It would hurt him to meet General
Lodge or any of the engineers who had predicted a future for him.
Shane and McDermott were also in this gang, and they slouched
forward.
"It's thot gun-throwin' cowboy as wuz onct goin' to kill Casey!"
exclaimed McDermott, at sight of Larry.
Neale, during the few moments of reunion with his old comrades of
the survey, received a melancholy insight into himself and a clearer
view of them. The great railroad had gone on, growing, making men
change. He had been passed by. He was no longer a factor. Along with
many, many other men, he had retrograded. The splendid spirit of the
work had not gone from him, but it had ceased to govern his actions.
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