If this snow should turn to rain now, it will mean a flood. And then the
men will have to turn out to-night and work to save the dams.
One more disaster, and he would hardly be able to finish within the
contract time. And that once exceeded, each day's delay means a penalty
of a thousand crowns.
It is getting darker.
At last there is nothing to be seen on the way but a shapeless mass of
snow struggling with bowed head against the storm, wading deep in the
loose drifts, wading seemingly at haphazard--and trailing after it an
indefinable bundle of white--dead white. Behind, a human being drags
along, holding on for dear life to the rings on the sleigh. It is the
post-boy from the last stage.
At last they were groping their way in the darkness towards the shore,
where the electric lights of the station showed faintly through the
snow-fog. And hardly had Peer got out of the sleigh before the snow
stopped suddenly, and the dazzling electric suns shone over the place,
with the workmen's barracks, the assistants' quarters, the offices, and
his own little plank-built house. Two of the engineers came out to meet
him, and saluted respectfully.
"Well, how is everything getting on?"
The greybeard answered: "The men have struck work to-day."
"Struck? What for?"
"They want us to take back the machinist that was dismissed the other
day for drunkenness."
Peer shook the snow from his fur coat, took his bag, and walked over to
the building, the others following.
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