“Coffee, you are a thief,” declared Neale, striding forward.  “The worst kind.  Because you stole without risk.  You can’t be punished.  But I’ll carry this deal higher than you.”  And quick as a flash Neale snatched some telegrams from Coffee’s vest pocket.  The act infuriated Coffee.  His face went purple.

“Hand ’em back!” he yelled, his arm swinging back to his hip.

“I’ll bet there’s a telegram here from Lee, and I’m entitled to keep it,” responded Neale, coolly and slowly.

Then as Coffee furiously jammed his hand back for his gun Neale struck him.  Coffee fell with the overturned table out in the sand.  His gun dropped as he dropped.  Neale was there light and quick.  He snatched up the gun.

“Coffee, you and Blake are to understand you’re fired,” said Neale.  “Fired off the job and out of camp, just as you are.”

Fifteen days later the work-train crossed Number Ten on a trestle and the construction progressed with new impetus.

Not many days later a train of different character crept slowly foot by foot over that temporary bridge.  It carried passenger-coaches, a private car containing the directors of the railroad, and General Lodge’s special car.  The engine was decorated with flags and the engineer whistled a piercing blast as he rolled out upon the structure.  Number Ten had been the last big obstacle.

As fortune would have it, Neale happened on the moment to be standing in a significant and thrilling position, for himself and for all who saw him.  And that happened to be in the middle of the stream opposite the trestle on the masonry of the middle pier, now two feet above the coffer-dam.  He was as wet and muddy as the laborers with him.

Engineer, fireman, brakemen, and passengers cheered him.  For Neale the moment was unexpected and simply heart-swelling.  Never in his life had he felt so proud.  And yet, stinging among these sudden sweet emotions was a nameless pang.

Presently Neale espied General Lodge leaning out of a window of his car.  He was waving.  Neale pointed down at his feet, at the solid masonry; and then, circling his mouth with his hands, he yelled with all his might: 

“Bed-rock!”

His chief yelled back, “You’re a soldier!”

That perhaps in the excitement and joy of the moment was the greatest praise the army officer could render.  Nothing could have pleased Neale more.

The train passed over the trestle and on out of sight.  Upon its return, about the middle of the afternoon, it stopped in camp.  A messenger came with word for Neale to report at once to the directors.  He hurried to his tent to secure his papers, and then, wet and muddy, he entered the private car of the directors.

It contained only four men—­General Lodge, and Warburton, Rogers, and Rudd.  All except the tall, white-haired Warburton were comfortable in shirt-sleeves, smoking with a table between them.  The instant Neale entered their presence he divined that he faced a big moment in his life.