Neale sensed the rest, the repose in the attitude of all the
laborers present. Their hour was done. And they accepted that with
the equanimity with which they had met the toil, the heat and
thirst, the Sioux. A splendid, rugged, loquacious, crude, elemental
body of men, unconscious of heroism. Those who had survived the five
long years of toil and snow and sun, and the bloody Sioux, and the
roaring camps, bore the scars, the furrows, the gray hairs of great
and wild times.
A lane opened up in the crowd to the spot where the rails had met.
Neale got a glimpse of his associates, the engineers, as they stood
near the frock-coated group of dignitaries and directors. Then Neale
felt the stir and lift of emotion, as if he were on a rising wave.
His blood began to flow fast and happily. He was to share their
triumphs. The moment had come. Some one led him back to his post of
honor as the head of the engineer corps.
A silence fell then over that larger, denser multitude. It grew
impressive, charged, waiting.
Then a man of God offered up a prayer. His voice floated dreamily to
Neale. When he had ceased there were slow, dignified movements of
frock-coated men as they placed in position the last spike.
The silver sledge flashed in the sunlight and fell. The sound of the
driving-stroke did not come to Neale with the familiar spang of
iron; it was soft, mellow, golden.
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