“That you, Jim?”

“You bet.”

“Run up to Jabe Curtis’s shanty, and tell him we’re here.  Have him gather his gang and bring two pairs of overalls and two jumpers—­ large size—­with him when he comes.”

Harding vanished into the darkness, and Buck Ogilvy climbed up into the cab and glanced at the steam-gauge.  “A hundred and forty,” he announced.  “Good enough!”

Presently the woods-boss, accompanied by thirty of his best men, came down to the log-landing.  At Bryce’s order they clambered aboard the engine and tender, hanging on the steps, on the roof of the cab, on the cowcatcher—­anywhere they could find a toe-hold.  Harding cast aside the two old ties which the careful engine-crew had placed across the tracks in front of the drivers as additional precaution; Buck Ogilvy cut off the air, and the locomotive and tender began to glide slowly down the almost imperceptible grade.  With a slight click it cleared the switch and slid out onto the Cardigan lateral, swiftly gathering speed.  A quarter of a mile down the line Buck Ogilvy applied the brakes and eased her down to twenty miles per hour.

At the junction with the main line Buck backed briskly up into the Laguna Grande woods, and coupled to the two loaded flat-cars.  The woods-gang scrambled aboard the flats, and the train pulled out for Sequoia.  Forty minutes later they rumbled down Water Street and slid to a grinding halt at the intersection of B Street.

From the darkness of Cardigan’s drying-yard, where they had been waiting, twenty picked men of the mill-crew now emerged, bearing lanterns and tools.  Under Buck Ogilvy’s direction the dirt promptly began to fly, while the woods-crew unloaded the rails and piled them close to the sidewalk.

Suddenly a voice, harsh and strident with passion, rose above the thud of the picks and the clang of metal.

“Who’s in charge here, and what in blazes do you mean by cutting my tracks?”

Bryce turned in time to behold Colonel Seth Pennington leap from an automobile and advance upon Buck Ogilvy.  Ogilvy held a lantern up to the Colonel’s face and surveyed Pennington calmly.

“Colonel,” he began with exasperating politeness, “—­I presume you are Colonel Pennington—­my name is Buchanan P. Ogilvy, and I am in charge of these operations.  I am the vice-president and general manager of the N.C.O., and I am engaged in the blithe task of making a jump-crossing of your rails.  I had hoped to accomplish this without your knowledge or consent, but now that you are here, that hope, of course, has died a-bornin’.  Have a cigar.”  And he thrust a perfecco under the Colonel’s nose.  Pennington struck it to the ground, and on the instant, half a dozen rough rascals emptied their shovels over him.  He was deluged with dirt.

“Stand back, Colonel, stand back, if you please.  You’re in the way of the shovellers,” Buck Ogilvy warned him soothingly.