"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."
The boss lost his humorous, quizzing expression. "Shure--shure,"
replied Reilly, as if he saw, but failed to comprehend. "Ye're
on.... An' more power to ye!"
He sent Neale out with the gang detailed to heave railroad ties.
A string of flat-cars, loaded with rails and ties, stood on the
track where the work of yesterday had ended. Beyond stretched the
road-bed, yellow, level, winding as far as eye could see. The sun
beat down hot; the dry, scorching desert breeze swept down from the
bare hills, across the waste; dust flew up in puffs; uprooted clumps
of sage, like balls, went rolling along; and everywhere the veils of
heat rose from the sun-baked earth.
"Drill, ye terriers, drill!" rang out a cheery voice. And Neale
remembered Casey.
Neale's gang was put to carrying ties. Neale got hold of the first
tie thrown off the car.
"Phwat the hell's ye're hurry!" protested his partner. This fellow
was gnarled and knotted, brick-red in color, with face a network of
seams, and narrow, sun-burnt slits for eyes. He answered to the name
of Pat.
They carried the tie out to the end of the rails and dropped it on
the level road-bed.
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