dangling over, blowing softly on his knuckles, a smile of divine contentment on his face.
What was Munford going to do? demanded McGuire and the cronies of his particular gang who had had the honor of being present at Pete's when the evening's proceedings were instituted, and who therefore felt they had a prior claim to the hero's consideration over and above that of the men from other sections of the work who had taken part in the fight. Munford did not know. Would he go up the line with them and take a job with their gang if they promised to get him one? Munford would. So he kept his seat when the construction train pulled out just as the dawn was breaking, and twenty miles up the road at Twin Bear Creek they tumbled him off and introduced him to Alan Burton, foreman of Bridge Gang No. 3.
At the sight of his battered and jaded crew, who in no wise appeared fit for the day's work before them, Burton swore savagely and with great bitterness of tongue bade them get to their work. Then he turned in his ill-humor to Munford, who was still standing beside him.
"Who the devil are you? What you doin' here? Where d'ye come from?"
The questions came quick and sharp like a volley of small arms.
Munford eyed the wiry little chunk of a man, scarcely up to his own shoulders, in silence, taking him in from head to foot.
"Well," snapped Burton, "speak up!"
