These Easterners talked of
money, of gold, as a grade foreman might have talked of gravel. They
smoked and conversed at ease, laughing at sallies, gossiping over
what was a tragedy west of North Platte; and about them was an air
of luxury, of power, of importance, and a singular grace that Neale
felt rather than saw.
Strangest of all to him was the glimpse he got into the labyrinthine
plot built around the stock, the finance, the gold that was
constructing the road. He was an engineer, with a deductive habit of
mind, but he would never be able to trace the intricacy of this
monumental aggregation of deals. Yet he was hugely, interested. Much
of the scorn and disgust he had felt out on the line for the
mercenaries connected with the work he forgot here among these
frock-coated gentlemen.
An hour later Neale accompanied Warburton to the station where the
director was to board a train for his return to New York.
"You'll start back to-morrow," said Warburton. "I'll see you soon, I
hope--out there in Utah where the last spike is to be driven. That
will be THE day--THE hour! ... It will be celebrated all over the
United States."
Neale returned to his hotel, trying to make out the vital thing that
had come to him on this hurried and apparently useless journey.
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