Part 18 (2/2)
”Say Uncle Somerville,” she amended. ”Don't charge it to Mr. McGrath.
Can't we go out on the platform?”
”It's as much as your life is worth,” he a.s.serted, but he opened the door for her.
The car was backing swiftly up the grade with the engine behind serving as a ”pusher.” At first the fiercely-driven snow-whirl made Virginia gasp. Then the speed slackened and she could breathe and see.
The shrilling wheels were tracking around a curve into a scanty widening of the canyon. To the left, on the rails of the new line, the big octopod was heaving and grunting in the midst of an army of workmen swarming thick upon the overturned guard engine.
”Goodness! it's like a battle!” she shuddered. As she spoke the Rosemary stopped with a jerk and McGrath's fireman darted past to set the spur-track switch.
The points were snow-clogged, and the fireman wrestled with the lever, saying words. The delay was measurable in heart-beats, but it sufficed. The big octopod coughed thrice like a mighty giant in a consumption; the cl.u.s.tering workmen scattered like chaff to a ringing shout of ”Stand clear!” and the obstructing ma.s.s of iron and steel rolled, wallowing and hissing, into the stream.
”Rails to the front! Hammermen!” yelled Winton; and the scattered force rallied instantly.
But now the wrestling fireman had thrown the switch, and at the Rajah's command the Rosemary shot out on the spur to be thrust with locked brakes fairly into the breach left defenseless by the ditched engine. With a mob-roar of wrath the infuriated track-layers made a rush for the new obstruction. But Winton was before them.
”Hold on!” he shouted, bearing them back with outflung arms. ”Hold on, men, for G.o.d's sake! There are women in that car!”
The wrathful wave broke and eddied murmurous while a square-shouldered old man with fierce eyes and huge white mustaches, and with an extinct cigar between his teeth, clambered down from the Rosemary's engine to say:
”Hah! a ratheh close connection, eh, Misteh Winton? Faveh me with a match, if you please, seh. May I a.s.sume that you won't tumble my private car into the ditch?”
Winton was white-hot, but he found a light for the Rajah's cigar, easing his mind only as he might with Virginia looking on.
”I shall be more considerate of the safety of the ladies than you seem to be, Mr. Darrah,” he retorted. ”You are taking long chances in this game, sir.”
The Rajah's laugh rumbled deep in his chest. ”Not so vehy much longer than you have been taking during the past fo'tnight, my deah seh. But neveh mind; all's fair in love or war, and we appeah to be having a little of both now up heah in Qua'tz Creek, hah?”
Winton flushed angrily. It was no light thing to be mocked before his men, to say nothing of Miss Carteret standing within arm's reach on the railed platform of the Rosemary.
”Perhaps I shall give you back that word before we are through, Mr.
Darrah,” he snapped. Then to the eddying mob-wave: ”Tools up, boys. We camp here for breakfast. Branagan, send the Two-fifteen down for the cook's outfit.”
The Rajah dropped his cigar b.u.t.t in the snow and trod upon it.
”Possibly you will faveh us with your company to breakfast in the Rosemary, Misteh Winton--you and Misteh Adams. No? Then I bid you a vehy good morning, gentlemen, and hope to see you lateh.” And he swung up to the steps of the private car.
Half an hour afterward, the snow still whirling dismally, Winton and Adams were cowering over a handful of hissing embers, drinking their commissary coffee and munching the camp cook's poor excuse for a breakfast.
”Jig's up pretty definitely, don't you think?” said Adams, with a glance around at the idle track force huddling for shelter under the lee of the flats and the octopod.
Winton shook his head and groaned. ”I'm a ruined man, Morty.”
Adams found his cigarette case.
”I guess that's so,” he said quite heartlessly. Then: ”h.e.l.lo! what is our friend the enemy up to now?”
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