Young Van hurried back with the order. Carhart quietly resumed the problems before him. Old Van, when he received the chief’s message, swore roundly. “What’s Paul thinking of!” he growled. “He ought to know that this is only the tip of the wedge. They’ll come up another ten per cent before the week’s out.” But Old Van failed to do justice to the promptness of Jack Flagg. At three in the afternoon the demand came; and for the second time that day the scrapers lay idle, and the mules wagged their ears in lazy comfort. “Well!” cried Old Van, sharply. “Well! It’s what I told you, isn’t it! Now, I suppose you still believe in running to Paul with the story.” “Yes,” replied the younger brother, firmly, “of course. He’s the boss.” “All right, sir! All right, sir!” The veteran engineer turned away in disgust as his brother started rapidly back to the camp. The laborers, meanwhile, covered with sweat and dust, tantalized by the infrequent sips of water doled out to them, lay panting in a long, irregular line on the newly turned earth. “Well, Gus,” said Carhart, with a wry smile, at sight of the dusty figure before the tent, “are they at it again?” “They certainly are.” “They don’t mean to lose any time, do they? How much is it now?” “Ten per cent more. What shall we do?” “Give it to them.” “All right.” “Wait a minute, Gus. Who’s their spokesman? “Dimond.” “Dimond?” Carhart frowned. “Nobody else?” “No; but the cook has been hanging around a good deal and talking with him.” “Oh--I see. Well, that’s all. Go ahead; give them what they ask.” Again the mules were driven at the work. Again--and throughout the day--the sullen men toiled on under the keen eye of Old Vandervelt. If he had been a driver before, he was a czar now. If he could not control the rate of pay, he could at least control the rate of work. To himself, to the younger engineers, to the men, to the mules, he was merciless. And foot by foot, rod by rod, the embankment that was to bear the track crept on into the desert. The sun beat down; the wind, when there was a wind, was scorching hot; but Old Van gave no heed. Now and again he glanced back to where the material train lay silent and useless, hoping against hope that far in the distance he might see the smoke of that other train from Sherman. Peet had said, yesterday, that it was on the way; and Old Van muttered, over and over, “D--n Peet!” Night came finally, but not the train. Aching in body, ugly in spirit, the laborers crept under their blankets. Morning came, but no train. Carhart spent an hour on the grade, and saw with some satisfaction that the time was not wholly lost; then he went back to the operator’s tent and opened communications with Sherman. Sherman expressed surprise that the train had not arrived; it had been long on the way, said the despatcher.