Neither was he surprised to hear this hesitating yet perfectly honest reply: “I’ve been thinking I’d start at the first saloon and drink to the other end of town. Want to come along?” “No,” Carhart replied, “I don’t believe I will, thanks. I meant to ask what work you plan to take up next?” “Nothing at all.” “Nothing!--why so?” “That is easy to answer.” Young Van laughed bitterly. “I have no offers.” “I’m surprised at that.” “You don’t really mean that, Mr. Carhart?” “Certainly I do.” “Well, it’s more than I can say. If a man came along and offered me a good position, I should feel that I ought to decline it.” “Why?” Carhart was genuinely interested. “Why?” Young Van rose and stood looking gloomily down at his chief. “That’s a funny question for you to ask. You’ve been watching my work for these months, and you’ve seen me developing new limitations in every possible direction. All together, I’ve discovered about the choicest crop any man ever opened up. When I started out, I thought I might some day become an engineer. But if this job has taught me anything, it has taught me that I’m the emptiest ass that ever tried to lay two rails, end to end, in a reasonably straight line.” The tremulous quality of his voice told Carhart how deeply the boy had taken his duties to heart. “I’ve been thinking to-day that the best thing I can do will be to rent a few acres somewhere out on Long Island and set up to raise chickens for the New York market: broilers, and maybe squabs--they say there is money in squabs. I’d probably find I couldn’t even do that, but it would be exciting for a while.” “Let’s get out and tramp around a little, Gus,” was Carhart’s reply. “That will do you as much good as a drunk.” Young Van flushed at this, but followed the chief out to the long street along which straggled the buildings that made up the settlement. These buildings were mostly saloons, each with its harvest of plainsmen, cowboys, laborers, and outcasts standing, sitting, or sprawling before the door. The day was hot with the dry heat of September, from which even the memory of moisture had long ago been sucked out. The dust rose at every step and settled on skin and clothing. Now and then a lounging figure rose and moved languidly in through a saloon door. Almost the only other movement to be seen was the heat vibration in the atmosphere. The only sound, beyond a drawled remark now and then, and the clink of glasses, was the tinkle of a crazy piano down the street. But the bronzed, sinewy engineers, who had for months known no other atmosphere, stepped off in a swinging stride, and soon were past the end of the street and out in the open. Carhart himself was not above a sense of elation, and he fell into reminiscence. “There is only one thing I have regretted, Gus,” he said. “If I could have got hold of a big Italian I know of, with about a hundred of his men, this dinner would have taken place some days ago.”