... Mon, ye're sweatin' blood roight now!"
Pat pointed at Neale's red, wet shirt. Neale slapped his breast, and
drops of blood and sweat spattered from under his hand.
"An' shure ye're hands are bladin', too!" ejaculated Pat.
They were, indeed, but Neale had not noted that.
The boss, Reilly, passing by, paused to look and grin.
"Pat, yez got some one to kape up with to-day. We're half a mile
ahead of yestidy this time."
Then he turned to Neale.
"I've seen one in yer class--Casey by name. An' thot's talkin'."
He went his way. And Neale, plodding on, saw the red face of the
great Casey, with its set grin and the black pipe. Swiftly then he
saw it as he had heard of it last, and a shadow glanced fleetingly
across the singular radiance of his mind.
The shrill whistle of the locomotive halted the work and called the
men to dinner and rest. Instantly the scene changed. The slow,
steady, rhythmic motions of labor gave place to a scramble back to
the long line of cars. Then the horde of sweaty toilers sought
places in the shade, and ate and drank and smoked and rested. As the
spirit of work had been merry, so was that of rest, with always a
dry, grim earnestness in the background.
Neale slowed down during the afternoon, to the unconcealed
thankfulness of his partner.
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