Neale saw that his manner of entrance, or the look of him, or both together, struck these men singularly.  He laughed.

“It was great—­going back to my job!” he exclaimed.

Baxter sat up.  General Lodge threw away his cigar with an action that suggested a sudden vitalizing of a weary but indomitable spirit.

“Did you find the snag we’ve struck?” asked Baxter, slowly.

“No,” replied Neale.

“Aha!  Well, I’ll have to take you out tomorrow and show you.”

The chief’s keen eyes began to shine as they studied Neale.

“No, couldn’t find any snag, Baxter, old boy... and the reason is because there’s no snag to find.”

Baxter stared and his worn face reddened.  “Boy, somethin’s gone to your head,” he retorted.

“Wal, I should smile, as Larry would say.”

Baxter pounded the table.  “Neale, it’s no smiling matter,” he said harshly.  “You come back here, your eye and mind—­fresh, but even so, it can’t be you make light of this difficulty.  You can’t—­you can’t—­”

“But I do!” cried Neale, his manner subtly changing.

Baxter got up.  His shaking hand rustled a paper he held.  “I know you—­of old.  You’ve tormented me often.  You’re a boy...  But here—­ this—­this thing has stumped me.  I’ve had no one to help... and I’m getting old—­this damned railroad has made me old.  If—­if you saw a way out—­tell me—­”

Baxter faltered.  Indeed he had aged.  Neale saw the growth of the great railroad with its problems in the face and voice of the old engineer.

“Listen,” said Neale, swiftly.  “A half-mile down from where you struck your snag we’ll change the course of that stream...  We’ll change the line—­set a compound curve by intersections—­and we’ll get much less than a ninety-foot grade to the mile.”

Then he turned to General Lodge.  “Chief, Baxter had so many problems—­so much on his mind—­that he couldn’t think...  The work will go on tomorrow.”

“But, Neale, you went out without any instrument,” protested the chief.

“I didn’t need one.”

“Son, are you sure?  This has been a stumper.  What you say—­seems too good—­too—­”

“Am I sure?” cried Neale, gaily.  “Look at Baxter’s face!”

Indeed, one look at the old engineer was confirmation enough.

Neale was made much of that night.  The chief and his engineers, the officers and their wives, all vied with one another in their efforts to celebrate Neale’s return to work.  The dinner party was merry, yet earnest, too.  Baxter made a speech, his fine old face alight with gladness as he extolled youth and genius and the inspiring power of bright eyes.  Neale had to answer.  His voice was deep and full as he said that Providence had returned him to his work and to a happiness he had believed lost.  He denied the genius attributed to him, but not the inspiring power of bright eyes.  And he paid a fine tribute to Baxter.