Presently Neale espied General Lodge leaning out of a window of his
car. He was waving. Neale pointed down at his feet, at the solid
masonry; and then, circling his mouth with his hands, he yelled with
all his might:
"Bed-rock!"
His chief yelled back, "You're a soldier!"
That perhaps in the excitement and joy of the moment was the
greatest praise the army officer could render. Nothing could have
pleased Neale more.
The train passed over the trestle and on out of sight. Upon its
return, about the middle of the afternoon, it stopped in camp. A
messenger came with word for Neale to report at once to the
directors. He hurried to his tent to secure his papers, and then,
wet and muddy, he entered the private car of the directors.
It contained only four men--General Lodge, and Warburton, Rogers,
and Rudd. All except the tall, white-haired Warburton were
comfortable in shirt-sleeves, smoking with a table between them. The
instant Neale entered their presence he divined that he faced a big
moment in his life.
The chiefs manner, like Larry King's when there was something in the
wind, seemed quiet, easy, potential. His searching glance held
warmth and a gleam that thrilled Neale. But he was ceremonious, not
permitting himself his old familiarity before these dignitaries of
the great railroad.
Pages:
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388