“I guess you haven’t been crowding it very hard, have you?”

Peterson flushed.

“I’ve been working harder than I ever did before,” he said.  “If it wasn’t for the cribbing being held up like this, I’d ‘a’ had the cupola half done before now.  I’ve been playing in hard luck.”

Bannon was silent for a moment, then he said:—­

“How long do you suppose it would take to get the cribbing down from Ledyard?”

“Not very long if it was rushed, I should think—­a couple of days, or maybe three.  And they’ll rush it all right when they can get the cars.  You see, it’s only ten or eleven hours up there, passenger schedule; and they could run it right in on the job over the Belt Line.”

“It’s the Belt Line that crosses the bridge, is it?”

“Yes.”

Bannon spread his legs apart and drummed on the front of his chair.

“What’s the other line?” he asked—­“the four track line?”

“That’s the C. & S. C. We don’t have nothing to do with them.”

They were both silent for a time.  The flush had not left Peterson’s face.  His eyes were roving over the carpet, lifting now and then to Bannon’s face with a quick glance.

“Guess I’ll shave,” said Bannon.  “Do you get hot water here?”

“Why, I don’t know,” replied Peterson.  “I generally use cold water.  The folks here ain’t very obliging.  Kind o’ poor, you know.”

Bannon was rummaging in his grip for his shaving kit.

“You never saw a razor like that, Pete,” he said.  “Just heft it once.”

“Light, ain’t it,” said Peterson, taking it in his hand.

“You bet it’s light.  And look here”—­he reached for it and drew it back and forth over the palm of his hand—­“that’s the only stropping I ever give it.”

“Don’t you have to hone it?”

“No, sir; it’s never been touched to a stone or leather.  You just get up and try it once.  Those whiskers of yours won’t look any the worse for a chopping.”

Peterson laughed, and lathered his face, while Bannon put an edge on the razor, testing it with a hair.

“Say, that’s about the best yet,” said Peterson, after the first stroke.

“You’re right it is.”

Bannon looked on for a few minutes, then he took a railroad “Pathfinder” from his grip and rapidly turned the pages.  Peterson saw it in the mirror, and asked, between strokes:—­

“What are you going to do?”

“Looking up trains.”

While Peterson was splashing in the washbowl, Bannon took his turn at the mirror.

“How’s the Duluth job getting on?” asked Peterson, when Bannon had finished, and was wiping his razor.

“All right—­’most done.  Just a little millwright work left, and some cleaning up.”

“There ain’t any marine leg on the house, is there?”

“No.”

“How big a house is it?”

“Eight hundred thousand bushels.”