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To Bob’s great disgust his first job was not out on the construction work. Whiskers had turned him over to Mr. Taylor, who set him to work in the draughting room. All day long he sat on a stool, and did simple sums: endless multiplications and divisions of figures that came from the blue prints made by the engineers. It was stupid work and had in it little of the romance which he had always associated with the work he was to do. However, he comforted himself with the thought that if it were not necessary, the Chief would never set him at it. Indeed he wasn’t a rascal. The whole thing had just happened of itself. It was no plan of his, but it was just as unlucky as if it had been. Bob—that was the horse’s name—knew Johnny whenever he went into the stable; there was no doubt about that, for the little horse would turn around in his stall and whinny at the sound of the boy’s step or voice. Of course Johnny always had sugar for him and brushed his pretty coat for him every day—dear, cunning little Bob!.

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“But we weren’t at the Canyon,” put in Bob. The gang had been working feverishly and without much order until Steve Whitney came on the scene. Bob was amazed at the change that seemed to take place as soon as his Chief had uttered a few incisive directions. The rescue work went on smoothly and efficiently. There was no panic, no blundering. Again and again Johnny Blossom opened his hand and looked at the silver pieces. Suddenly, speaking aloud in his determination, he said: “I am going to give these to Tellef. It was an awful shame for me to fight him like that, even if he did hit me in the back.” With shrieks of anguish—madness and despair!.