Lately the office had received a few unmistakably vigorous messages from Carhart. Tiffany, too, had taken a hand, and had opened his mind to the Vice-president. The Vice-president had in turn talked with Peet, who explained that the materials were always sent forward as rapidly as possible, and added that certain delays had arisen from the extremely dangerous condition of Carhart’s road-bed. Meantime, not only rails and ties, but also food and water, were running short out there at the end of the track. “What does he say now, Paul?” asked Old Van, after a long silence, during which these bronzed, dusty men sat looking at the flickering lamp or at the heaps of papers, books, and maps which covered the table. Carhart drew a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket and tossed it across the table. Old Van spread it out, and read as follows:-- MR. PAUL CARHART: Small delay due to shortage of equipment. Supply train started this morning, however. Regret inconvenience, as by order of Vice-president every effort is being made to supply you regularly. L. W. PEET, _Division Superintendent_. “Interesting, isn’t it!” said Carhart. “You notice he doesn’t say how long the train has been on the way. It may not get here for thirty-six hours yet.” “Suppose it doesn’t,” put in Scribner, “what are we going to do with the men?” “Keep them all grading,” said Carhart. “But--” “Well, what is it? This is a council of war--speak out.” “Just this. Scraping and digging is thirsty work in this sun, and we haven’t water enough for another half day.” “Young Van is due with water.” “Yes, he is due, Mr. Carhart, but you told him not to come back without it, and he won’t.” “Listen!” Outside, in the night, voices sounded, and the creaking of wagons. “Here he is now,” said Carhart. Into the dim light before the open tent stepped a gray figure. His face was thin and drawn; his hair, of the same dust color as his clothing, straggled down over his forehead below his broad hat. He nodded at the waiting group, threw off his hat, unslung his army canteen, and sank down exhausted on the first cot. Old Van, himself seasoned timber and unable to recognize the limitations of the human frame, spoke impatiently, “Well, Gus, how much did you get?” “Fourteen barrels.” “Fourteen barrels!” The other men exchanged glances. “Why--why--” sputtered the elder brother, “that’s not enough for the engines!” “It’s all we can get.” “Why didn’t you look farther?” “You’d better look at the mules,” Young Van replied simply enough. “I had to drive them”--he fumbled at his watch--“an even eighteen hours to get back to-night.” And he added in a whimsical manner that was strange to him, “I paid two dollars a barrel, too.” Carhart was watching him closely. “Did you have any trouble with your men, Gus?” he asked. Young Van nodded. “A little.”