There was about the scene a sense of enterprise, of buoyant freedom, of deeds to be done. Flint felt it, as he rode at the head of his motley cavalcade; for he was an imaginative man. Young Van, standing by the headquarters tent, felt it, for he was young. Tiffany, still at breakfast, felt it so strongly that he swore most unreasoningly at the cook. Down on the job, the humblest stake man stood motionless until Old Van, who showed no signs of feeling anything, asked him if he hadn’t had about enough of a sy-esta. As for Carhart, he was stirred, but his fancy did not roam far afield. From now on those things which would have it in their power to give him the deepest pleasure were the sight of gang after gang lifting cross-ties, carrying them to the grade, and dropping them into place; the sight of that growing line of stubby yellow timbers, and the sound of the rails clanking down upon them and of the rapid-fire sledges driving home the spikes. * * * * * Young Van poked his head in through the flaps. “Well?” said the chief, looking up. “Won’t you come down, Mr. Carhart? The boys want you to drive the first spike.” Carhart smiled, then pushed back his chair, and strode out and down the slope to the grade. “Stand back there, boys!” cried somebody. Carhart caught up a sledge, swung it easily over his shoulder, and brought it down with a swing. “There,” he cried, entering into the spirit of the thing, “there, boys! That means Red Hills or bust.” The cheer that followed was led by the instrument man. Then Carhart, still smiling, walked back to his office. Now the work was begun. But Old Van, the division engineer, was scowling. He wished the chief would quit stirring up these skylarking notions--on _his_ division, anyway. It took just that much longer to take it out of the men--break them so you could drive them better. CHAPTER IV JACK FLAGG SEES STARS It was a month later, on a Tuesday night, and the engineers were sitting about the table in the office tent. Scribner, the last to arrive, had ridden in after dusk from mile fourteen. For two weeks the work had dragged. Peet, back at Sherman, had been more liberal of excuses than of materials. It was always the mills back in Pennsylvania, or slow business on connecting lines, or the car famine. And it was not unnatural that the name of the superintendent should have come to stand at the front for certain very unpopular qualities. Carhart had faith in Tiffany, but the railroad’s chief engineer was one man in a discordant organization. Railroad systems are not made in a day, and the S. & W. was new, showing square corners where all should be polished round; developing friction between departments, and bad blood between overworked men. Thus it had been finally brought home to Paul Carhart that in order to carry his work through he must fight, not only time and the elements, but also the company in whose interest he was working.