"Gentlemen,
that is not the talk of engineers," he said, deliberately.
"The hell you say! What is it, then?" burst out Coffee, his face
flushing redder.
"I'll inform you later," replied Neale, turning to the lineman.
"Somers, tell this gang boss, Colohan, I want him."
Neale left the tent. He had started to walk away when he heard Blake
speak up in a fierce undertone.
"Didn't I tell you? We're up against it!"
And Coffee growled a reply Neale could not understand. But the tone
of it was conclusive. These men had made a serious blunder and were
blaming each other, hating each other for it. Neale was conscious of
anger. This section of line came under his survey, and he had been
proud to be given such important and difficult work. Incompetent or
careless engineers had bungled Number Ten. Neale strode on among the
idle and sleeping laborers, between the tents, and then past the
blacksmith's shop and the feed corrals down to the river.
A shallow stream of muddy water came murmuring down from the hills.
It covered the wide bed that Neale remembered had been a dry, sand-
and-gravel waste. On each side the abutment piers had been
undermined and washed out. Not a stone remained in sight. The banks
were hollowed inward and shafts of heavy boards were sliding down.
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