Neale ate at a mess-table with the laborers, and enjoyed his meal.  The Paddies always took to him.  One thing he gathered early was the fact that Number Ten bridge was a joke with the men.  This sobered Neale and he left the cheery, bantering company for a quiet walk alone.

It was twilight down in the valley, while still daylight up on the hilltops.  A faint glow remained from the sunset, but it faded as Neale looked.  He walked a goodly distance from camp, so as to be out of earshot.  The cool night air was pleasant after the hot day.  It fanned his face.  And the silence, the darkness, the stars calmed him.  A lonely wolf mourned from the heights, and the long wail brought to mind Slingerland’s cabin.  Then it was only a quick step to memory of Allie Lee; and Neale drifted from the perplexities and problems of his new responsibility to haunting memories, hopes, doubts, fears.

When he returned to the tent he espied a folded paper on the table in the yellow lamplight.  It was a telegram addressed to him.  It said that back salaries and retention of engineers were at his discretion, and was signed Lodge.  This message nonplussed Neale.  The chief must mean that Blake and Coffee would not be paid for past work nor kept for future work unless Neale decided otherwise.  While he was puzzling over this message the engineers came in.

“Say, what do you make of this?” demanded Neale, and he shoved the telegram across the table toward them.

Both men read it.  Coffee threw his coat over on his cot and then lit his pipe.

“What I make of this is—­I lose three months’ back pay ... nine hundred dollars,” he replied, puffing a cloud of smoke.

“And I lose six hundred,” supplemented Blake.

Neale leaned back and gazed up at his subordinates.  He felt a subtle change in them.  They had arrived at some momentous decision.

“But this message reads at my discretion,” said Neale.  “It’s a plain surprise to me.  I’ve no intention of making you lose your back pay, or of firing you, either.”

“You’ll probably do both—­unless we can get together,” asserted Coffee.

“Well, can’t we get together?”

“That remains to be seen,” was the enigmatic reply.

“Ill need you both,” went on Neale, thoughtfully.  “We’ve a big job.  We’ve got to put a force of men on the piers while we’re building the trestle ...  Maybe I’ll fall down myself.  Heavens!  I’ve made blunders myself.  I can’t condemn you fellows.  I’m willing to call off all talk about past performances and begin over again.”

Neale felt that this proposition should have put another light on the question, that it should have been received appreciatively if not enthusiastically.  But he was somewhat taken aback by the fact that it was not.

“Ahem!  Well, we can talk it over to-morrow,” yawned Coffee.

Neale made no more overtures, busied himself with his notes for an hour, and then sought his cot.