For a while they were silent. Young Van’s face grew sober. The track, this double line of rusty steel, had so absorbed the energy of all of them that it seemed now, to his inexperience, the complete outward expression of their lives. He could think of little else. When not engrossed by the actual work, his thoughts were ranging beyond, far into the deeper significance of it. Crowding on the heels of the constructors would come settlers. Already mushroom towns were pushing up along the line behind them. With settlers would come well-boring, irrigation, farming, and ranching. Timber, bricks, stone would be rushed into these new lands, to be converted into hotels, shops, banks, dwellings. The marvellously intricate interrelations of civilization would suddenly be found existing and at work. There would be rude, hard struggles, much drinking and gambling, and some shooting. The license of the plains would be found strangely mingled with law and with what we call right. The church and the saloon would march on, side by side. And, finally, out of the uproar and the fighting would rise, for better or worse, a new phase of life. Thinking these things, Young Van could not forget that they five--Paul Carhart, John Flint, Old Van, Harry Scribner, and himself--were bringing it about. They were breaking the way, pioneers of the expansion of a restless, mighty people. “No,”--Carhart was speaking,--“that letter was from Peet. You might enjoy reading it.” Young Van started from his revery, took the letter, and spread it open. “My dear Mr. Carhart,” it ran, “I am very sorry, indeed, about the delay of that lot of spikes. I have arranged with Mr. Tiffany to buy up all we can find here in Sherman and hurry them on to you. Please keep me informed by wire of any delays and inconveniences. You will understand, I am sure, that we mean to stop at nothing to keep you from the slightest annoyance and delay in these matters. Very faithfully yours, L. W. Peet.” “But we have spikes enough,” said the assistant, looking up. “What does he mean?” Carhart smiled. “Just what he says; that he wouldn’t delay us for worlds.” “‘Very faithfully yours,’ too. What is all this, Mr. Carhart? What have you done to him--hypnotized him?” Carhart smiled. “Hardly,” he replied; adding, “Reach me that spool of thread, will you?” But instead of continuing his needlework, Carhart, when he received the spool, laid it down beside him and sat, deep in thought, gazing out through the tent-opening into the night. “Gus,” he asked abruptly, “where did the operator go?” Young Van glanced up at his chief, then answered quietly: “To bed, I think. I heard him say he was going to turn in early to-night.” “Would you mind stirring him out?” “Certainly not.” “Wait a minute. We have enough firewood on hand to keep the engines going six or perhaps eight days. That won’t do.” Young Van was slightly puzzled. “Go ahead, Gus. Tell him to meet me at his instrument in ten minutes.”