yez are so dom' smart--now tell me who built the U. P.?" demanded
Pat.
"Thot's asy. Me fri'nd Casey did, b'gorra," retorted McDermott.
"Loike hell he did! It was the Irish."
"Shure, thot's phwat I said," McDermott replied.
"Wal, thin, phwat built the U. P.? Tell me thot. Yez knows so much."
McDermott scratched his sun-blistered, stubble-field of a face, and
grinned. "Whisky built the eastern half, an' cold tay built the western
half."
Pat regarded his comrade with considerable respect. "Mac, shure yez is
intilligint," he granted. "The Irish lived on whisky an' the Chinamons
on tay.... Wal, yez is so dom' orful smart, mebbe yez can tell me who
got the money for thot worrk."
"B'gorra, I know where ivery dollar wint," replied McDermott.
And so they argued on, oblivious to the impressive last stage.
Neale sensed the rest, the repose in the attitude of all the laborers
present. Their hour was done. And they accepted that with the equanimity
with which they had met the toil, the heat and thirst, the Sioux. A
splendid, rugged, loquacious, crude, elemental body of men, unconscious
of heroism. Those who had survived the five long years of toil and snow
and sun, and the bloody Sioux, and the roaring camps, bore the scars,
the furrows, the gray hairs of great and wild times.
A lane opened up in the crowd to the spot where the rails had met.
Neale got a glimpse of his associates, the engineers, as they stood near
the frock-coated group of dignitaries and directors. Then Neale felt
the stir and lift of emotion, as if he were on a rising wave. His blood
began to flow fast and happily. He was to share their triumphs. The
moment had come. Some one led him back to his post of honor as the head
of the engineer corps.
A silence fell then over that larger, denser multitude. It grew
impressive, charged, waiting.
Then a man of God offered up a prayer. His voice floated dreamily
to Neale. When he had ceased there were slow, dignified movements of
frock-coated men as they placed in position the last spike.
The silver sledge flashed in the sunlight and fell. The sound of the
driving-stroke did not come to Neale with the familiar spang of iron; it
was soft, mellow, golden.
A last stroke! The silence vibrated to a deep, hoarse acclaim from
hundreds of men--a triumphant, united hurrah, simultaneously sent out
with that final message, "Done!"
A great flood of sound, of color seemed to wave over Neale. His eyes
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