Garton's face lighted up with eagerness, his eyes grew very
bright, he spoke swiftly. It was easy to see that the man was full of
his work, pricked with the fever of it, alive with enthusiasm.
"You seem to be mightily interested in the work," Conniston smiled.
"I am. I am in love with it! A man can't live here ten days and be a
part of it without loving it or hating it. It's the greatest work in
the world; it's big--bigger than we can see with our noses jammed up
against it! It's a man's work. And thank God we've got the right man
at the head of it!"
"Meaning Truxton?"
"Meaning the man who is the brain of it and the brawn of it; the heart
and soul and glorious spirit of it; yes, and the pocket-book of it!
That's John Crawford, a big man--the biggest man I ever knew. Who else
would have the nerve to tackle a thing like this, to tackle it
lone-handed? And to hold on to it in the face of opposition which
would crush another man, and with the risk of utter financial ruin
looming as big as a house, like a glorious, grim old bulldog! Oh, you
don't know what it means yet; you can't know. Wait until you've been
here a week, seeing every day of it a thousand dollars poured into the
sand, a few square yards of sand leveled, a few yards of canal dug,
and you'll begin to understand. Why, the whole thing as it stands is
as dangerous as a dynamite bomb--and John Crawford is as cool about it
as an anarchist!"
"You speak of opposition.
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