The dawn was just tingeing the sky in the east when the train rushed into the great, echoing train-shed at Cincinnati. The men got out and hurried forward to the dining-room, where a lunch of coffee and sandwiches awaited them. Here, too, were the train-master and division superintendent, trim-built, well-groomed men, with alert eyes, who knew the value of kind words and appreciative criticism when it came to managing men. Lunch was hastily eaten, and then the whole crowd proceeded to the special inspection train, where it stood on the side-track ready to start on its two hundred mile trip eastward. And a peculiar looking train it was—consisting, besides the engine, of only one car, a tall, ungainly, boarded structure, open at one end, and, facing the open end, tiers of seats stretching upward to the roof. Into this the men poured and took their seats, so that every one could see the long stretch of track as it slid backward under them. Almost at once the signal came to start, and the gaily decorated engine—draped from end to end in green, that all might know it was the “Irish Brigade” out on its inspection tour—pulled out through the “ditch,” as the deep cut within the city limits is called, past the vast stock-yards and out upon the level track beyond. Instantly silence settled upon the car, broken only by the puffing of the engine and the clanking of the wheels over the rails. Seventy pairs of eyes were bent upon the track, the road-bed, the right of way, noting every detail. Seventy pairs of ears listened to the tale the wheels were telling of the track’s condition. It was a serious and solemn moment. Allan, too, looked out upon all this, and his heart fell within him. Surely, no track could be more perfect, no road-bed better kept. It must be this section which would win the prize. Yet, when that section had been left behind and the next one entered on, he could detect no difference. How could anybody rate one section higher than another, when all alike were perfect? And what possible chance was there for Twenty-one? They were side-tracked at the end of an hour to allow a through passenger to pass, and the babel of voices arose again. But it was silenced at once the moment they ran out to continue on the journey. Hours passed, and at last, with a leaping heart, Allan recognized the west end of Section Twenty-one. He glanced at Jack Welsh, and saw how his eyes were shining, but he dared not look in his direction a second time. He stared out at the track and wondered if it was really here that he had laboured for the past week.