Part 15 (1/2)

Peet's expression was not what might be termed complacent. He was standing on the piazza when he heard Carhart's quick step on the stairs. His teeth were closed tightly on a cigar, but he was not smoking.

”How are you, Mr. Peet?” said the engineer. Peet looked nervously about and behind him, and then faced around. ”Look here, Mr. Carhart, I want to tell you that you haven't got that straight--”

”Where's Tiffany?” said Carhart.

At this interruption Peet turned, if anything, a shade redder. ”He's gone home.”

”Let's find him. Would you mind walking over there?”

”Certainly not,” Peet replied; and for a moment they walked in silence. Then the superintendent broke out again. ”You didn't understand about those cars, Mr. Carhart. I know--the boys have told me--that you've thought some hard things about me--” He paused: perhaps he had better keep his mouth shut.

As for Carhart, he was striding easily along, the hint of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. ”I think I understand the situation pretty well, Peet,” he said. ”I was a little stirred up when my men began to go thirsty, but that's all past, and I'm going to drop it. I guess we both understand that this construction is the most important thing Mr. De Reamer has on hand these days. And if we're going to carry him through, we'll have to pull together.”

They found Tiffany, coat thrown aside, hat tipped back, weeding his garden.

”Come in--glad to see you,” he said, only half concealing his curiosity over the spectacle of Carhart and Peet walking together in amity. ”Didn't succeed in getting back, eh, Carhart?”

”Not yet, Tiffany. I had to run up to Crockett.” He said this in an offhand manner, and he did not look at Peet; but he knew from the expression on Tiffany's face that the superintendent was turning red again.

”You ain't had supper, have you?” said Tiffany. ”You're just in time to eat with us.”

”Supper!” Carhart repeated the word in some surprise, then looked at his watch.

”You hadn't forgotten it, had you?” Tiffany grinned.

”To tell the truth, I had. May we really eat with you? It will save us some time.”

”Can you? Well, I wonder! Come in.” And taking up his coat, Tiffany led the way into the house.

More than once during that meal did Tiffany's eyes flit from Peet's half-bewildered countenance to that of the quiet, good-natured Carhart. He asked no questions, but he wondered. Once he thought that Peet threw him an inquiring glance, but he could not be certain. After supper, as he reached for the toothpicks and pushed back his chair, he was tempted to come out with the question which was on his mind, ”What in the devil are you up to, Carhart?” But what he really said was, ”Help yourselves to the cigars, boys. They're in that jar, there.”

And then, for a moment, both Peet and Tiffany sat back and watched Carhart while he lighted his cigar, turned it over thoughtfully, shook the match, and dropped it with a little sputter into his coffee cup.

Then the man who was building the Red Hills extension got, with some deliberation, to his feet, and turned toward Tiffany. ”Would it spoil your smoke to take it while we walk?” he asked.

”Not at all,” replied the host. ”Where are we going?”

”To the yards.”

Peet, for no reason whatever, went red again; and Tiffany, tipped back in his chair and slowly puffing at his cigar, looked at him. Then he too got up, and the three men left the house together. And during all the walk out to the freight depot, Carhart talked about the new saddle-horse he had bought at Crockett.

The freight yard at Sherman extended nearly a mile, beginning with the siding by the depot and expanding farther on to the width of a dozen tracks. Carhart came to a halt at the point where the tangle of switches began, and looked about him. Everywhere he saw cars, some laden, some empty. A fussy little engine was coughing down the track, whistling angrily at a sow and her litter of spotted, muddy-yellow pigs which had been sleeping in a row between the rails. From the roundhouse, off to the left, arose the smoke of five or six resting locomotives. Nearer at hand, seated in a row on the handle of the turn-table, were as many black negroes, laughing and showing their teeth and eyeb.a.l.l.s, and discussing with much gesticulation and some amiable heat the question of the day. Carhart's sweeping glance took in the scene, then his interest centred on the cars.

Peet fidgeted. ”There ain't any of your cars here, Mr. Carhart,” he said uneasily.

Already Carhart knew better, but he was not here to squabble with Peet. ”How many have you here all together?” he asked; and after a moment of rapid counting he answered his own question: ”Something more than a hundred, eh?”

”Yes, but--”

”Well, what?”

”Look here, Carhart, I don't know what you've got in mind, but I can't let you have any of these cars.”