THE PACKER Weston was engaged with several others flinging gravel into a flat car with a long-hafted shovel the next morning when Cassidy strode up the track; and, though the men already had been working hard, they quickened the pace a little when they saw him.

He could tell at a glance whether a man were doing his utmost, and nothing less would satisfy him.

He knew also exactly how many cubic yards of soil or gravel could be handled by any particular gang.

If the quantity fell short, there was usually trouble.

However, he said nothing to the others that morning, but beckoned Weston aside, and stood a moment or two looking at him, with a grimly whimsical twinkle in his eyes.
Weston had not suffered greatly during the struggle of the previous evening, but there was a discolored bruise on one of his cheeks and a big lump on his forehead.