After a moment, during which his eyes were closed and his muscles relaxed, he gathered his faculties, lighted a cigarette, and rose. “Hold on, Gus,” said Carhart. “What are you going to do?” “Bring the barrels up by our tent here. It isn’t safe to leave them on the wagons. The men--some of them--aren’t standing it well. Some are ‘most crazy.” He interrupted himself with a short laugh. “Hanged if I blame them!” “You’d better go to bed, Gus,” said the chief. “I’ll look after the water.” But Young Van broke away from the restraining hand and went out. Half a hundred laborers were grouped around the water wagons in oppressive silence. Vandervelt hardly gave them a glance. “Dimond,” he called, “where are you?” A man came sullenly out of the shadows. “Take a hand here--roll these barrels in by Mr. Carhart’s tent.” A murmur spread through the group. More men were crowding up behind. But the engineer gave his orders incisively, in a voice that offered no encouragement to insubordination. “You two, there, go over to the train and fetch some skids. I want a dozen men to help Dimond--you--you--” Rapidly he told them off. “The rest of you get away from here--quick.” “What you goin’ to do with that water?” The voice rose from the thick of the crowd. It drew neither explanation nor reproof from Young Van; but his manner, as he turned his back and, pausing only to light another cigarette, went rapidly to work, discouraged the laborers, and in groups of two and three they drifted off to their quarters. The men worked rapidly, for Mr. Carhart’s assistant had a way of taking hold himself, lending a hand here or a shoulder there, and giving low, sharp orders which the stupidest men understood. As they rolled the barrels along the sides of the tent and stood them on end between the guy ropes Paul Carhart stood by, a rolled-up map in his hand, and watched his assistant. He took it all in--the cowed, angry silence of the men, the unfailing authority of the young engineer. No one felt the situation more keenly than Carhart, but he had set his worries aside for the moment to observe the methods of the younger man. Once he caught himself nodding with approval. And then, when he was about to turn away and resume his study at the table beneath the lantern, an odd scene took place. The work was done. Vandervelt stood wiping his forehead with a handkerchief which had darkened from white to rich gray. The laborers had gone; but Dimond remained. “That’s all, Dimond,” said Vandervelt. But the man lingered. “Well, what do you want?” “It’s about this water. The boys want to know if they ain’t to have a drink.” “No; no more to-night,” replied Young Van. “But--but--” Dimond hesitated. “Wait a minute,” said Van abruptly. He entered the tent, found his canteen where he had dropped it, brought it out, and handed it to Dimond. “This is my canteen. It’s all I have a right to give anybody. Now, shut up and get out.”