"What is that?"
"Them," grunted the Lark, wriggling like an eel in Conniston's grip,
"is your five hundred new guys, or I'm a liar! An' fergit you're the
strong man in a sideshow doin' stunts with a rag doll--"
But Conniston did not hear him. Already he was running toward the
wagons. And there was a light in his eyes which had not been there for
many days. A little, youngish man, sandy of hair, with bird-like
brightness of eye and the grin of a sanctified cherub, swung down from
the seat of the foremost wagon, lifted his hand, thereby stopping the
laboring procession, and came forward to meet Conniston.
"I want to talk with the superintendent," he said, as the two men met.
"Where is he?"
"I'm the superintendent. I'm Conniston. You want me?"
"All right, Mr. Conniston. I'm Jimmie Kent."
He put out his hand, which was painfully small, but which gripped
Conniston's larger hand like a vise. "There are your five hundred men.
Or, to be exact, five hundred and five. I started with five hundred
and seven. Lost two on the road."
"But," interrupted Conniston, staring half incredulously at him, "Mr.
Crawford's telegram--"
Jimmie Kent laughed.
"Mr. Crawford kicked like a bay steer over that telegram. And in the
end, when he wouldn't put his name to a lie, I did the trick for him."
"But why?"
"Simply, sir, because I am under contract to deliver five hundred men
into your hands.
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