Neale returned thoughtfully to camp.  Blake and Coffee were sitting under the fly in company with a stalwart Irishman.

“Fine sink-hole you picked out for Number Ten, don’t you think?” queried Blake.

Neale eyed his interrogator with somewhat of a penetrating glance.  Blake did not meet that gaze frankly.

“Yes, it’s a sink-hole, all right, and—­no mistake,” replied Neale.  “It’s just what I calculated when I ran the plans....  Did you follow those plans?”

Blake appeared about to reply when Coffee cut him short “Certainly we did,” he snapped.

“Then where are the breakwaters?” asked Neale, sharply.

“Breakwaters?” ejaculated Coffee.  His surprise was sincere.

“Yes, breakwaters,” retorted Neale.  “I drew plans for breakwaters to be built up-stream so that in high water the rapid current would be directed equally between the piers, and not against them.”

“Oh yes!  Why—­we must have got—­it mixed,” replied Coffee.  “Thought they were to be built last.  Wasn’t that it, Blake?”

“Sure,” replied his colleague, but his tone lacked something.

“Ah—­I see,” said Neale, slowly.

Then the big Irishman got up to extend a huge hand.  “I’m Colohan,” he boomed.

Neale liked the bronzed, rough face, good-natured and intelligent.  And he was aware of a shrewd pair of gray eyes taking his measure.  Why these men seemed to want to look through Neale might have been natural enough, but somehow it struck him strangely.  He had come there to help them, not to discharge them.  Colohan, however, did not rouse Neale’s antagonism as the others had done.

“Colohan, are you sick of this job?” queried Neale, after greeting the boss.

“Yes—­an’ no,” replied Colohan.

“You want to quit, then?” went on Neale, bluntly.  The Irishman evidently took this curt query as a foreword of the coming dismissal.  He looked shamed, crestfallen, at a loss to reply.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” continued Neale.  “I’m not going to fire you.  But if you are sick of the job you can quit.  I’ll boss the gang myself ...  The rails will be here in ten days, and I’m going to have a trestle over that hole so the rails can cross.  No holding up the work at this stage of the game ...  There’s near five thousand men in the gangs back along the line—­coming fast.  They’ve all got just one idea—­success.  The U. P. R. is going through.  Soon out here the rails will meet. ...  Colohan, make it a matter of your preference.  Will you stick?”

“You bet!” he replied, heartily.  A ruddy glow emanated from his face.  Neale was quick to sense that this Irishman, like Casey, had an honest love for the railroad, whatever he might feel for the labor.

“Get on the job, then,” ordered Neale, cheerily.  “We’ll hustle while there’s daylight.  We’ll have that trestle ready when the rails get here.”

Coffee laughed scornfully.  “Neale, that sounds fine, but it’s impossible until the trains get here with piles and timbers, iron, and other stuff.  We meant to run up a trestle then.”