in the doorway and cast his
Torrance fled back to the end-of-steel village at Mile 127, that ghastly face before him, the picture of a strong man weeping. And for three days he drank himself to forgetfulness.
On the morning of the fourth day he rolled up his sleeves again, waved his hand after the fleeing O’Connor, and signed a fresh contract for himself. Nature, the enemy he had been threshing into submission all his life, was not going to block the beautiful grade he had built. With the effects of the acidulated poison of Mile 127 still in his limbs but clear of his brain he shook his fist at the quicksands.
And now, eleven months later, he was still shaking his fist–and his curses were deeper and more bitter. For the quicksands were fighting to the last ditch, swallowing whole forests of trees and hills of rock, and opening its maw for more. Friends urged Torrance to ask leave to move the grade north or south to sounder bottom. But Torrance was not built that way. Besides, he had great reverence for a survey. Even a bridge, where a filled-in trestle was planned–a bridge with a span two hundred yards long–impossible!
Torrance stood in the doorway and cast his eye along the line of steel above the trestle. Only a week ago it had been shored up again, and fewer supply trains than usual had passed. Yet it was down six inches.
The orchestra Chico Morani, a mere Dago bohunk himself, had organised among the men, burst afresh. And every other sound ceased. Even the groups out before the camp paused to listen.
"Morani’s started on the second number, Tressa. Thank Heaven he has one redeeming feature, if he is a Wop."
"This isn’t your loving night, daddy. It must be my cooking–"
"There’s Koppy just come out of his shack. A couple with him, Werner and Heppel, I bet."
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