wrecking gang on a division of the Grand Trunk, had made a business of
rising to emergencies, was obviously the man for the situation. He was
worn thin as an old knife-blade, he was just at the end of a piece of
work that would have entitled any other man to a vacation; but
MacBride made no apologies when he assigned him the new task--"Go
down and stop this fiddling around and get the house built. See that
it's handling grain before you come away. If you can't do it, I'll
come down and do it myself."

Bannon shook his head dubiously. "Well, I'm not sure--" he began. But
MacBride laughed, whereupon Bannon grinned in spite of himself. "All
right," he said.

It was no laughing matter, though, here on the job this Monday
morning, and, once alone in the little section house, he shook his
head again gravely. He liked Peterson too well, for one thing, to
supersede him without a qualm. But there was nothing else for it, and
he took off his overcoat, laid aside the coupling pin, and attacked
the stack of blue prints.

He worked rapidly, turning now and then from the plans for a
reference to the building book or the specifications, whistling softly,
except when he stopped to growl, from force of habit, at the office,
or, with more reasonable disapproval, at the man who made the
drawings for the annex. "Regular damn bird cage," he called it.

It was half an hour before Peterson came in. He was wiping the
sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and drawing
long breaths with the mere enjoyment of living. "I feel good," he
said. "That's where I'd like to work all day. You ought to go up