“There’s only one wooden house in this town.  That must be where the boss lives,” declared Harry.

“Yes; that’s where the boss lives,” replied the Colorado youth, with a wry smile.

“Let’s go over and see whether he has time to talk to us,” suggested Reade.

“Just one minute, gentlemen,” interposed the driver.  “Where do you want your kit boxes placed?  Are you going to pay me now?”

“Drop the kit boxes on the ground anywhere,” Tom answered.  “We’re strong enough to carry ’em when we find where they belong.”

And—–­yes:  we are going to pay you now.  Eighteen dollars, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied the young driver, with the brevity of the mountaineer.

Tom and Harry went into their pockets, each producing nine dollars as his share of the fare.  This was handed over to the Colorado youth.

“’Bliged to you, gentlemen,” nodded the Colorado boy pocketing the money.  “Anything more to say to me?”

“Nothing remains to be said, except to thank you, and to wish you good luck on your way back,” said Reade.

“I wish you luck here, too, gentlemen.  Good day.”

With that, the driver mounted his seat, turned the horses about and was off without once looking back.

“Now let’s go over to the house and see the boss,” murmured Tom.

Together the chums skirted the camp, going up to the wooden building.  As the door was open, Tom, with a sense of good manners, approached from the side that he might not appear to be peeping in on the occupants of the building.  Gaining the side of the doorway, with Harry just behind him, Reade knocked softly.

“Quit yer kidding, whoever it is, and come in,” called a rough voice.

Tom thereupon stepped inside.  What he saw filled him with surprise.  Around the room were three or four tables.  There were many utensils hanging on the walls.  There were two stoves, with a man bending over one of them and stirring something in a pot.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Tom.  “I thought I’d find Mr. Timothy Thurston, the chief engineer, here.”

“Nope,” replied a stout, red-faced man of forty, in flannel shirt and khaki trousers.  “Mr. Thurston never eats between meals, and when he does eat he’s served in his own mess tent.  Whatcher want here, pardner?”

“We’re under orders to report to him,” Tom answered politely.

“New men in the chain gang?” asked the cook, swinging around to look at the newcomers.

“Maybe,” Reade assented.  “That will depend on the opinion that Mr. Thurston forms of us after he knows us a little while.  I believe the man in New York said we were to be assistant engineers.”

“There’s only one assistant engineer here,” announced the cook.  “The other engineers are Just plain surveyors or levelers.”

“Well, we won’t quarrel about titles,” Tom smilingly assured the cook.  “Will you please tell us where Mr. Thurston is?”