“Yes.” “We’ll send him up to take charge of the well business. He can do it, now that it is so well started. We need Scribner.” “How much must we do a day now, to make it?” asked Young Van. “We shall average as near as possible to two miles.” Young Van whistled, then recovered himself. “All right, Mr. Carhart,” he said. “Two miles is good. Beginning to-day, I suppose?” “Beginning to-day.” The chief spent very little time on himself. He was soon out and riding along the grade, showing no nervousness, yet making it plain to every man on the job that he meant to give an exhibition of “the fanciest track-laying ever seen in these United States.” That was the way Young Van, in the exuberance of his new-found spirits, expressed it to the foreman of the iron squad. But even Young Van’s enthusiasm was not equal to the facts. When the night whistle blew, and the dripping workmen dropped their picks and sledges, and rails, and ties, and reins, and sat down to breathe before washing up for supper,--there was water for washing now,--the conductor of the material train called to Young Van, and waved toward a stake beside the track. “See that stick,” he shouted. “Yes, I see it.” “Well, sir,”--the conductor was excited too,--“I’ve been setting up one of those things for every time we moved ahead a train length. My train’s a little over a thousand foot long, and--and how many of those sticks do you suppose I’ve set up since morning? Give a guess now!” “I should say eight or ten. We’ve been getting over the ground pretty rapidly.” “No, sir! No, sir! Fifteen there were, fifteen of ’em!” “Fifteen thousand feet--three miles!” The young man stood a moment, then turned and walked soberly away. It was early the next morning that Young Van recalled Jack Flagg’s communication, which he still had in his pocket. He saw that the chief was about starting off for his breakfast, and called him back and gave him the paper. Carhart read it, smiled rather contemptuously, and handed it back. “That man,” he said, “was just about big enough to stir up a little trouble in the camp. I’m glad we’re through with him.” “I wish I was sure we were,” replied Young Van. “Hello! you’re right, Gus. Here he is again.” Charlie was approaching with another dirty paper in his hand. “I didn’t think anybody could get in last night, Mr. Carhart,” he said ruefully, “but--here is what they left.” The chief took this second paper and read it aloud:-- MY DEAR MR. CARHART: My shooting’s getting bum. Better luck next time. JACK FLAGG. “Flagg ought to be on the stage,” he said when he had tossed the paper away. “He is the sort of man that can’t get along without an audience.” CHAPTER VIII SHOTS--AND A SCOUTING PARTY