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.