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?"

"He's in his tent over yonder," said the cook, pointing through
the open doorway.

"Shall we step over there and announce ourselves?" Tom inquired.

"Why, ye could do it," rejoined the red-faced cook, with a grin.
"If Tim Thurston happens to be very busy he might use plain talk
and tell you to git out of camp."