At Camp No. 2 Maclennan had struck what was called a hard proposition. The line ran straight through a muskeg out of which the bottom seemed to have dropped, and Maclennan himself, with his foreman, Craigin, was almost in despair. For every day they were held back by the muskeg meant a serious reduction in the profits of Maclennan's contract.
The foreman, Craigin, was a man from "across the line," skilled in railroad building, selected chiefly because of his reputation as a "driver." He was a man of great physical force and indomitable will, and gifted in large measure with the power of command. He knew his business thoroughly and knew just how to get the most out of the machinery and men at his command. He himself was an untiring worker, and no man on the line could get a bigger day out of his force than could Craigin. His men he treated as part of his equipment. He believed in what was called his "scrap-heap policy."
When any part of the machinery ceased to do first-class work it was at once discarded, and, as with the machinery, so it was with the men. A sick man was a nuisance in the camp and must be got rid of with all possible speed. Craigin had little faith in human nature, and when a man fell ill his first impulse was to suspect him of malingering, and hence the standing order of the camp in regard to a sick man was that he should get to work or be sent out of the camp. Hence the men thoroughly hated their foreman, but as thoroughly they dreaded to fall under his displeasure.
The camp stood in the midst of a swamp, thick with underbrush of spruce and balsam and tamarack. The site had been selected after a month of dry weather in the fall, consequently the real condition of the ground was not discovered until the late rains had swollen the streams from the mountain-sides and filled up the intervening valleys and swamps. After the frost had fallen the situation was vastly improved, but they all waited the warm weather of spring with anxiety.
On the crest of the hill which overlooked the camp the doctor halted the team.
"Where are your stables, Tommy?"
"Over there beyant, forninst the cook-house."
"Good Lord!" murmured the doctor. "How many men have you here?"
"Between two an' three hundred, wid them that are travellin' the road."
"What are your sanitary arrangements?"
"What's that?"
"I mean how do you--what are your arrangements for keeping the camp clean, free from dirt and smells? You can't have three hundred men living together without some sanitary arrangements."
"Begob, it's ivery man fer himsilf. Clane yersilf as ye can through the week, an' on Sundays boil yer clothes in soap suds, if ye kin git near the kittles. But, bedad, it's the lively time we have wid the crathurs."
"And is that the bunk-house close up to the cookery?"
"It is that same."
"And why was it built so close as that?"
"Sure there wuz no ground left by raison av the muskeg at the back av it."
The doctor gave it up. "Drive on," he said. "But what a beautiful spot for a camp right there on that level."
"Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that Craigin calls it, fer ivery thaw the bottom goes clane out av it till ye can't git round fer mud an' the dump fallin' through to the antipods," replied Tom.
"Yes, but up on this flat here, Tommy, under the big pines, that would be a fine spot for the camp."
"It wud that same. Bad luck to the man who set it where it is."
As they drove into the camp the cook came out with some refuse which he dumped down on a heap at the door. The doctor shuddered as he thought of that heap when the sun shone upon it in the mild weather. A huge Swede followed the cook out with a large red muffler wrapped round his throat.
"Hello, Yonie!" cried Tommy. "What's afther gittin' ye up so early?"
"It is no sleep for dis," cried Yonie thickly, pointing to his throat.
The doctor sprang from the sleigh. "Let me look at your throat."
"It's the docthor, Yonie," explained Tommy, whereupon the Swede submitted to the examination.
The doctor turned him toward the east, where the sun was just peeping through the treetops, and looked into his throat. "My man, you go right back to bed quick."
"No, it will not to bed," replied Yonie. "Big work to-day, boss say. He not like men sick."
"You hear me," said the doctor sharply. "You go back to bed.
Where's your doctor?"
"He slapes in the office between meals. Yonder," said Tommy, pointing the way.
"Never mind now. Where are your sick men?"
"De seeck mans?" replied the cook. "She's be hall overe. On de bunk-house, on de cook shed. Dat is imposseeb to mak' de cook for den seeck mans hall aroun'."
"What? Do they sit around where you are cooking?"
"Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunkhouse she's col.' Poor feller! But she's mak' me beeg troub'. She's cough, cough, speet, speet. Bah! dat's what you call lak' one beas'."
The doctor strode into the cook-house. By the light of the lantern swinging from the roof he found three men huddled over the range, the picture of utter misery. He took down the lantern.
"Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow me to look at your throats, men."
"Dis de docteur, men," said the cook.
A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face growing more stern with each examination.
"Boys, you must all get to bed at once. You must keep away from this cook-house or you'll poison the whole camp."
"Where can we go, doctor? The bunk-house would freeze you and the stink of it would make a well man sick."
"And is there no place else?"
"No. Unless it's the stables," said another man; "they're not quite so bad."
"Well, sit here just now. We'll see about it. But first let me give you something." He opened his bag, took out his syringe.
"Here, Yonie, we'll begin with you. Roll up your sleeve." And in three minutes he had given all four an antitoxin injection. "Now, we'll see the doctor. By the way what's his name?"
"Hain," said the cook, "dat's his nem."
"Haines," explained one of the men.
"Dat's what I say," said the cook indignantly, "Hain."
