raising, but
his derricks were strong and his rigging plentiful. Moreover, the water
was not deep.

All the material that could not be recovered by the grapples was
duplicated by means of quick replies to wired orders, and the work of
transportation across the lake was successfully completed.

It was well into a warm May, and his men for the last week had been
moving soil and building culverts before the case of Col. Gideon Ward
was brought to Parker's attention in a manner requiring action. One
evening just after dusk his foreman scratched on the flap of the
engineer's tent, in which he was now living at Poquette.

"Come in!" he called.

The canvas was lifted and a man entered. Parker turned the reflector of
his lantern on the visitor.

"Joshua Ward!" he exclaimed, as he started up and seized the old man's
outstretched hand.

He led him to a camp-stool. They looked at each other for a time in
silence. Tears trembled on Joshua's eyelashes, and he passed his knotted
hand over his face before he spoke.

"Mr. Parker," he said, tremulously, "I've come to bring ye money to
pay for every cent's worth o' damage to property 'an loss o' time an'
everything." He laid a package in the young man's hand. "Help yourself,"
he quavered. "I'm goin' to trust to your honesty, for I'm certain I can.
Take what's right. Gid and I don't know anythin' about railroads an'
what such things as you lost are worth. All we can do is to show that we
mean to square things the best we can now. Gid's sorry now, Mr. Parker,
he's sorry--sorry--sorry--poor Gid!" The old man sobbed outright.

"Did he--" The young man paused, half-fearing to ask the question.

Joshua again ran his rough palm across his eyes. Then, in dumb grief, he
set the edge of his right hand against his left wrist, the left hand to
the right wrist, and then marked a place on each leg above the ankle.

"All off there, Mr. Parker." The old man bent his head into his hollowed
palms. Tears trickled through his fingers. There was a long silence. The
young man did not know how to interrupt that pause.

"I'm feedin' an' tendin' him like I used to when he was a baby an' I a
six-year-old. He's at my camp, Mr. Parker. He don't ever want to be seen
agin in the world, he says--only an old, trimmed, dead tree, he says.
Poor old Gid! No matter what he's been, no matter what he's done, you'd
pity him now, Mr. Parker, for the hand o' punishment has fell heavy on
my poor brother."

The eng