Late on Thursday evening that mythical train really rolled in, and half the night was spent in preparations for the next day. Friday morning tracklaying began again. In the afternoon a second train arrived, and the air of movement and accomplishment became as keen as on the first day of the work. Paul Carhart, in a flannel shirt, which, whatever color it may once have been, was now as near green as anything, a wide straw hat, airy yellow linen trousers, and laced boots, appeared and reappeared on both divisions--alert, good-natured, radiating health and energy. The sun blazed endlessly down, but what laborer could complain with the example of the boss before him! The mules toiled and plunged, and balked and sulked, and toiled again, as mules will. The drivers--boys, for the most part--carried pails of water on their wagons, and from time to time wet the sponges which many of the men wore in their hats. And over the grunts and heaves of the tie squad, over the rattling and groaning of the wagon, over the exhausts of the locomotives, sounded the ringing clang of steel, as the rails were shifted from flat-car to truck, from truck to ties. It was music to Carhart,--deep, significant, nineteenth-century music. The line was creeping on again--on, on through the desert. “What do you think of this!” had been Young Van’s exclamation when the second train appeared. “It’s too good to be true,” was the reply of his grizzled brother. Old Vandervelt was right: it was too good to be true. Soon the days were getting away from them again; provisions and water were running short, and Peet was sending on the most skilful lot of excuses he had yet offered. For the second time the tracklaying had to stop; and Carhart, slipping a revolver into his holster, rode forward alone to find Scribner. He found him in a patch of sage-brush not far from a hill. The heat was blistering, the ground baked to a powder. There had been no rain for five months. Scribner, stripped to undershirt and trousers, was standing over his men. “Glad to see you, Mr. Carhart!” he cried. “You are just in time. I think I’ve struck it.” “That’s good news,” the chief replied, dismounting. They stepped aside while Scribner gave an account of himself. “I first drove a small bore down about three hundred feet, and got this.” He produced a tin pail from his tent, which contained a dark, odorous liquid. Carhart sniffed, and said:-- “Sulphur water, eh!” “Yes, and very bad. It wouldn’t do at all. But before moving on, I thought I’d better look around a little. That hill over there is sandstone, and a superficial examination led me to think that the sandstone dips under this spot.” “That might mean a very fair quality of water.” “That’s what I think. So I inserted a larger casing, to shut out this sulphur water, and went on down.” “How far?” “A thousand feet. I’m expecting to strike it any moment now.” “Your men seem to think they have struck something. They’re calling you.”