w get your men
going. We've got a day's work ahead of us."

A little more than fifteen minutes later Conniston himself pounded one
of the cook's pans as a summons to breakfast. The cook, surly,
glowering as he moved, set forth the big pots of coffee.

Less than half an hour after he had ridden into the idle camp
Conniston saw the two hundred men resume their work of yesterday as
though nothing unusual had happened, saw the teams string out in the
four sections of the ditch where Truxton had left off, watched the
long lines of scrapers and plows cutting into the soft soil, scooping
it out and piling it upon the banks of the canal.

He climbed to a little knoll from which he could glance over them
before and behind the ditch-cutters. Yonder, toward Valley City,
Truxton's two foremen were directing their men with the same
quick-eyed, steady competence which they had manifested under the eye
of the older engineer. From them he turned to the men working under
Ben and the Lark. There, too, was machine-like regularity; there, too,
each man, each straining animal was in its place, putting forth its
utmost of capability.

There came to the man who watched an irritating sense of his own
uselessness: the work was going forward with great, swinging, rhythmic
effectiveness. This thing had leaped out upon him unawares, and he was
half afraid of the responsibility which had fastened itself upon his
shoulders. For, after all, Greek Conniston had not yet entirely found
himself, was not sure of himself.

Brow drawn and anxious, watchful, deeply thoughtful, Conniston did not
see Mr. Crawford until the buckboard driven by Half-breed Joe had
stopped close behind him. He wheeled about, startled at Mr. Crawford's
voice.

"Good morning, Conniston. How's the work going?"

"All right, I hope." He came to the buckboard and, resting his hand
upon the wheel, looked up into the face of the man who was to learn of
another savage blow dealt to the hopes of his project.

"Where is Truxton?" Mr. Crawford was standing up in the wagon, looking
as Conniston had looked at the sweep of work being done.

"He--" Conniston hesitated. "He's in the tent."

Mr. Crawford turned suddenly upon him, his eyes narrowing.

"What's the matter?" he demanded, hurriedly.

Conniston shook his head slowly, turning his eyes away from the face
which a glance had shown him was drawn with quick anxiety.

"Drive to the tent, Joe!" commanded Mr. Crawford, his voice v