Here another fifty men were at work; and here,
where the top of the sand had already been scraped away, a harder soil
called for the use of the big plows before the scrapers could be of
any use. The foreman here, a South-of-Market San-Franciscan by his
speech, shouted a command to one of the drivers and came up to
Truxton.
"Whatcher want to-day?" he demanded. "Ten foot?"
"Nine," Truxton told him, shortly. "Nine an' a half by the time you
get to that first stake. Nine three-quarters at the second. Can you
get that far to-day?"
The foreman turned a quid of tobacco, squinted his eye at the two
stakes, and nodded.
"Sure thing," he said.
And then he turned on his heel and went back to the point he had quit,
yelling his orders as he went.
"Another good man," Truxton muttered. "Thank the Lord, we've got some
of them you couldn't beat if you went a thousand miles for 'em."
Still farther on was the third gang, and beyond that the fourth. These
hundred men were at work on the "Seven Knolls." And there Truxton
himself would superintend the work to-day. He stopped and stood with
Conniston upon one of the mounds, from which they could see all that
was being done. And with slow, thoughtful carefulness he told
Conniston all that he could of the work in detail.
"You do a good deal of watchin' to-day," he ended. "Ben an' the
Lark--that's what they call that little cuss bossin' the second
gang--listen to him whistle an' you'll know why--know well what to do.
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