Conniston had nearly forgotten
them. His day was from daylight until dark, often until long after
dark. Upon more than one evening, after the men had had their suppers
and crawled into their blankets, he and Truxton had sat in the tent at
the cook's rude table, a lantern between them, figuring and planning
upon the next day.
He began to notice a vague change in the older engineer as the days
went by. At first he was hardly conscious of it, at a loss to
catalogue it. But before the middle of the week he realized that each
evening found Truxton more irritable, more prone to explode into quick
rage over some trifle. The man's eyes began to show the restless fever
within him, and some sort of an unsleeping, nervous anxiety.
Throughout the days the men stood clear of him. His flaming wrath
burst out at a blundering mistake or at a man's failure to follow to
the last letter some short-spoken instructions. It was only one night
when Conniston made careless mention of Oliver Swinnerton, and Truxton
flew into a towering, cursing rage, that he began to believe that he
saw the real reason for Truxton's growing ill temper.
"The thievin', mangy, pot-bellied porcupine!" Truxton had shouted,
banging his fist down upon the cook's table so hard that the lantern
jumped two inches in the air. "I'll just naturally rid the earth of
him one of these days.
Pages:
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214