Part 62 (2/2)
”Yes. Hasn't Grif the originals?” asked Blake in a careless tone that was barely touched with surprise.
Ashton rallied from his fright. ”No, you're mistaken, completely mistaken! These are the originals. I drew them myself. I couldn't trust to a draughtsman.”
”Sure not, such important work as this span of yours. Grif tells me there's never before been anything built like this suspension span,”
agreed Blake, bending over to study the drawings. ”But you'll admit some of these figures are rather slipshod for work on original drawings put in to win a compet.i.tion.”
”But I--I didn't compete. The idea came to me too late for that. I tried my utmost to be in time for the contest. I was working fast to get my plans drawn. That's why I made some errors--which you may have noticed.”
Blake looked up with an ironical smile.
Ashton moistened his lips, hesitated, and asked in an uneasy tone: ”About--about how long do you expect to stay? I suppose you will stay, won't you?”
”Well, three or four days, maybe. As you probably know, Grif screwed the company up to offer me a stiff salary--on the strength of that Zariba work, I suppose. I didn't intend to take the offer at all, but my clothes were--they got rather out of repair on my Southern tour, and I came on up here without stopping at my tailor's. Happened to leave my checkbook, too, and it's a long walk to town.”
”Oh, if it's only that you're strapped,” Ashton hastened to reply; ”I'll be pleased to draw you a check--little loan, you know--anything from a hundred to a thousand. No hurry about paying it back. I'm flush.”
”You're too kind!” said Blake dryly.
”It's nothing--nothing--a mere trifle!” a.s.sured Ashton, with a touch of condescension. ”You know I'll have scads of money to burn some day.” He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a checkbook. ”I know you can't be anxious to hang around a dreary hole like this. Suppose I make it five thousand? You can keep the money as long as you wish. There's just time for you to catch the extra train we're sending down to the junction for more steel.”
”Thanks. But I need a good rest,” said Blake.
”I'll think it over, and let you know. Maybe I'll decide to loaf around with you a few days and save borrowing.”
”Oh, well, if you can stand this jumping-off place,” replied Ashton, visibly disappointed.
He glanced down into the open drawer, and his eyes narrowed with a look of furtive eagerness that did not escape Blake. In a corner of the drawer was a squat black bottle and a tumbler. Ashton lifted them out and poured a half-gla.s.sful of whiskey that was thick and oily with age.
”The real stuff!” he said, holding out the tumbler to Blake. ”Older than your grandmother. Let's wet your welcome to Michamac!”
”Here's how!” replied Blake, with a geniality of tone and manner that diverted the other's attention from the glint in his eyes. He took the gla.s.s and deliberately twisted his hand backward so that the whiskey poured out on the bare floor in front of the desk.
”Look out! You're spilling it!” exclaimed Ashton.
”No, just pouring it,” explained Blake. ”German custom. Next time you're in a beer-garden do it, and they'll let you know what it means.”
”Means?” echoed Ashton.
”In this case, it means I never drink when I'm on a job. One of my rules. Told you I had accepted that standing offer, didn't I?”
”Yes. But I didn't know that you--”
”Well, you know now. I'm on this job.”
Ashton shot a covert glance at his square-jawed opponent.
”Then it's a mistake--the report that you refused to accept any position from Mr. Leslie,” he murmured.
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