Helen was somewhat moved.  Sadie’s rude philosophy was founded on truth, and having made sacrifices, she had a right to preach.  After all, to dull the fine edge of Stephen’s energy would be an unworthy action and perhaps dangerous.  Helen had been jealous of his farm, but admitted that she might have had worse rivals.

“Do you know ’The Sons of Martha’?” she asked and recited a verse.

“It’s great,” said Sadie simply.  “That man has our folks placed.  Well, I don’t read much poetry, but there’s a piece of Whitman’s I like.  When I watch an ox-team break the first furrow in virgin soil, or a construction train, loaded with new steel, go by, I hear him calling:  ‘Pioneers!  Oh, Pioneers!’”

There was silence for a few moments, and then Sadie leaned forward.  “I don’t know if I’ve said enough, or said too much, but Bob goes back in three days and could take a message.”

The color crept into Helen’s face, and her look was strangely soft.

“Let him tell Stephen to finish his work as well as he can; say I understand.”

CHAPTER XXVII

SNOW

Tossing snowflakes filled the air, and although it was three o’clock in the afternoon the light was fading, when Charnock opened the door of the caboose.  A bitter wind rushed past him and eddied about the car, making the stove crackle.  The iron was red-hot in places and a fierce twinkle shone out beneath the rattling door.  Half-seen men lay in the bunks along the shadowy wall, tools jingled upon the throbbing boards, but the motion was gentler than usual and the wheels churned softly instead of hammering.

“Is she going to make it?” somebody asked.

Charnock leaned out of the door.  Black smoke streamed about the cars and he heard a heavy snorting some distance off, but the caboose lurched slowly along the uneven track.  The construction train was climbing a steep grade, the driving wheels slipped and he doubted if the locomotive could reach the summit, from which the line ran down to the camp.  Dim pines, hardly distinguishable from the white hillside, drifted past; a shapeless rack loomed up and slowly drew abreast.  It was some moments before Charnock lost it in the tossing white haze.

“I don’t know if she’ll make it or not, but rather think she won’t,” he said.

“Then come in and shut the blamed door,” another growled.  “No need to worry about it, anyhow!  Pay’s as good for stopping in the caboose as for humping rails in the snow.”

“You’re luckier than me in that way,” Charnock answered as he shut the door.  “There are some drawbacks to being your own boss.  When you can’t get to work it’s comforting to know that somebody else has to find the dollars and put up the hash.”