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Updated: June 20, 2025
"You think we'll get through in time, don't you, Mr. Peterson?" "Think!" he exclaimed. "I don't have to stop to think. Here comes Max; just ask him." Max slammed the door behind him, brought down the timekeeper's book on Hilda's desk with a slap that made her jump, and vaulted to a seat on the railing. "Well, I guess it's a case of hurrah for us, ain't it, Pete?"
Then the whistle shrilled, the timekeeper's watch clicked, the ball sped away, and the game had begun. The brown-clad skirmishers leaped forward to oppose the invaders, while the pigskin, slowly revolving, arched in long flight toward the west goal.
When Bannon came on the job on Friday morning at seven o'clock, a group of heavy-eyed men were falling into line at the timekeeper's window. Max was in the office, passing out the checks. His sister was continuing her work of the night before, going over what books and papers were to be found in the desk.
The day was yet young, and the long journey was still younger. It was at the noon halt, made at a subcontractor's camp near a great earth-cutting and a huge fill, that Kenneth had his object lesson. They were standing at the door of the timekeeper's shanty they had been the timekeeper's guests for the noon meal and the big gang of Italians, with its inevitable Irish foreman, was already at work.
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