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 very stern.

Conniston watched them as their horses leaped forward in the slack traces, saw Mr. Crawford jump down, enter the tent, saw him come out again and spring back into the buckboard.

“Now, Joe,” as he got down beside Conniston, “you can unhook your horses.  I am going to be here this morning.”

Joe drove away to where the camp horses had been picketed.  And Mr. Crawford turned to Conniston.

“This is going to make it hard, Conniston,” he said, slowly, his face and voice alike very grave.  “It is the one thing which I had hoped would not happen.  But we’ve got to make the most of it.”  He paused suddenly, and his keen eyes ran thoughtfully from one to another of the four gangs of men.  “They’re working all right,” he ended, his eyes coming back to Conniston’s.

“Yes.  They’re good men.  The four foremen are as capable as a man could ask for.”

“Were they working this way when you got here?”

“No.  They were waiting for orders.”

Mr. Crawford nodded, making no reply.