she wouldn't wipe her feet on me if I laid down an' begged her
to."

CHAPTER XVI

After a long night, during which he slept little and thought much,
Conniston rose early, breakfasted at the little lunch-counter, and
without waking Tommy Garton rode swiftly toward Truxton's camp. He
hastened, for although it was still early morning it was time for work
to begin upon the ditch.

From the top of a knoll half a mile out of camp he could look down
into the little hollow where the men and teams should be already at
their daily grind. A little frown gathered his brows as he saw instead
that the horses were standing at their stakes in a long row, that the
men were gathered together in clumps, obviously idle. And even then he
had no way to guess what new trouble had come to the Great Work.

Shooting his spurs into his horse's panting sides, he swept down the
gentle slope of the sand-hill and galloped straight toward the cook's
tent. He saw that not only were the men idle, but that they gave no
evidence of an intention to go to work. He saw, too, that they looked
at him as he rode among them, that they watched him curiously, that
many of them were laughing.

Fifty paces from the tent he came upon his two foremen--Ben the
Englishman and the Lark--talking in low tones with the two foremen who
had worked under Truxton's eye.

"What's the matter?" he called, sharply, angrily, although he did not
know it. "Where's Truxton?"

"Inside the tent," the Lark answered him, shortly.

And, asking no further questions, waiting for no explanation,
Conniston swung down from his horse, hurried to the tent, flung back
the flap, and entered. Only then did the truth dawn on him, and he
staggered back as though a man had struck him a stunning blow full in
the face.

The air in the tent was reeking and foul with the fumes of cheap
whisky. At the little table Bat Truxton sat slouched forward, his face
hidden in the arm he had flung out as he slipped forward. An empty
quart bottle lay on its side at his elbow. A second bottle, with an
inch of the amber fluid in it, stood just beyond his clenched fist.

Truxton made no sign, did not so much as stir, as Conniston dropped
the flap of canvas and stood over him. His breath came heavily,
saturated with whisky. Conniston laid a rude hand upon the slack
shoulder, shaking it roughly. Still Truxton did not lift his head, did
not even mutter as a drunken man is apt to do in his stupor. With the