Loring possessed a strong imagination and he had solaced many a hardship by either planning for pleasanter occupations in the future, or vividly reconstructing worse ones in the past. But imagination is a dangerous plaything. The men working on either side of him thought of nothing, except perhaps some solution of the great problem of the human race, how to make the greatest possible show of work with the least effort. Stephen, however, was accompanied in his work by imagination. To-day it was of a sort which was neither subtle nor pleasant. It began by saying to him: “You are healthy. You will probably live for thirty years or more. They will be pleasant years, won’t they? There are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, so if you work ten hours a day for thirty years, perhaps you may grow used to work. Work is a great companion, is it not, Stephen? It is unfortunate,” finished imagination glibly, “that you must do this forever.” Loring spoke aloud in answer to his imagination, timing his syllables to the already shortened strokes of his pick. “Not forever?” “Well,” rejoined imagination, “I see no alternative, do you? And what is more,” added the Devil who at this moment was operating imagination, “_You_ are not even building the railroad. All _you_ are doing is moving rocks. _Any one_ can move rocks.” By noon time Stephen was limp and exhausted. The hour’s respite seemed to him to go by like a flash, and he started upon the afternoon’s work in a hopeless frame of mind, his muscles stiffened instead of rested by the short relaxation. After an hour’s labor, he moved to a place where the ground was soft, and for a while his delight in this supported him. It is little things such as this which make the epochs in a day of manual labor. As he toiled on grimly, in a few short hours, he had reversed his views on Socialism. “Of course the laborer is the chief factor in production,” he murmured wearily to himself, as he grew more and more dizzy. At three o’clock, McKay, with a surveying party, reached the section of the grade where Loring was working. Stephen watched him, as he stooped over the level and waved his hand up and down. He heard him shout “O. K. back sight! Ready fore sight!” Then “O. K. fore sight! _’Sta ’ueno!_” and somehow the cheery tones braced Loring for his work. McKay, as he came up, nodded cheerfully: “I left that hat for you in the cook tent,” he said; “it will make you look like a real man!” Then noticing the agonized swings of the pick, he looked at Loring quizzically.