As the ties were got into place, the rails were spiked down upon them and fish-plates were bolted into place. Rod after rod they advanced, tugging, hammering, with the energy of desperation. It was no question now of a perfect road-bed—rail must be joined to rail so that once more the red blood of commerce could be pumped along the artery they formed. After that there would be time for the fine points. And just as the sun peeped over the eastern hills, the last spike was driven, the last bolt tightened. The work was done. The men cheered wildly, savagely, their voices hoarse and unnatural. Then they gathered up their tools, staggered to the car, and fell exhausted on bunk or chair or floor, and went instantly to sleep. Allan found afterward that he had no memory whatever of those last trying hours. At the side of the road the train-master was ticking off a message which told that his promise was kept,—a message which sent a thrill of life along the line from end to end,—which told that the road was clear. Then he cut loose his instrument, and he and the superintendent walked back to the car together. They were no longer the trim, good-looking men of every day—they were haggard, gaunt, unshaven. Their eyes were bloodshot, their clothing soiled and torn. They had not spared themselves. For thirty-six hours they had been working without so much as lifting their hats from their heads. But they had won the battle—as they had won many others like it, though few quite so desperate. On either side the track was piled a mass of twisted wreckage; the engine still lay high on the bank. That could wait. Another crew could haul the engine down and gather up the débris, for the track was open. The journey back took longer than the journey out. At every siding they headed in to let passenger and freight whirl past; the blood was bounding now, trying to make up for the time it had been stopped. But the men lying in the car saw none of them; the roar of their passage did not awaken them—they knew not whether the trip back took two hours or ten—they were deaf, blind, dead with fatigue. Only at the journey’s end were they awakened, and it was no easy task. But at last they had all arisen, gaunt shadows of their former selves. “Boys,” said the superintendent, “I want to tell you that I’ve never seen a wreck handled as well as you handled this one. You did great work, and I’m proud of you. Now go home and go to sleep,—sleep twenty-four hours if you can. Don’t report for duty till to-morrow. And I promise you I won’t forget this night’s work.” They staggered away through the curious crowd at the station, seeing nothing, turning instinctively in the direction of their homes. “Why,” remarked one white-haired man, gazing after them, “they look just as we looked after we got through the Wilderness. They look like they’ve been under fire for a week.” The superintendent, passing, heard the remark.