Part 63 (1/2)

”Mistake? No,” curtly answered Blake. ”Needn't try to fool me. Mr.

Leslie turned the bridge over to the Coville Company months ago.”

”Fool you?” sneered Ashton. ”You're too easy! The Coville Company is only another name for Papa Leslie.”

”Look here,” warned Blake. ”You're apt to learn soon that some lies aren't healthy.”

”It's the truth,” replied Ashton, giving back a little, but insistent on the facts. ”It's a way he avoids responsibility. But he owns ninety-nine per cent of the stock. Griffith must have told you that. He knows all about it.”

This obstinate insistence, despite the young fellow's evident fear, convinced Blake. He half raised his clenched fist.

”And I fell to it!” he muttered. ”Let him bunco me into putting through that dam for him! Scheme to make me take his money!”

”You as good as put half a million into his pocket,” jeered Ashton.

”What do I care about that?” rejoined Blake.

”It's that fifty thousand bonus. He'll be trying to force it on me.”

Ashton thought he had misunderstood. ”Don't fear he'll not pay up. He's good pay when you have it in black and white. There's still time to catch the train. You'll find your check waiting you at the offices of the company.”

Blake did not reply. One of the dimensional figures on a blueprint of the south cantilever had caught his glance, and he had bent over to peer at it. A sudden stillness seemed to have fallen upon him.

After a perceptible pause, he asked in a tone that was very low and quiet and deliberate: ”Would you mind telling me if this blueprint was made direct from your originals--from the original drawings used in ordering the structural steel?”

”Yes, of course,” answered Ashton. ”Why?”

”You are sure?”

”I'm certain. You don't think I'd let any one with a pen fool around my drawings, do you?”

”Lord, no! Might correct your d.a.m.n errors!” cried Blake, all his stony calm fluxing to lava before an outflare of volcanic excitement. ”You fool!--Lord! Wasting time! Sit down--scratch off an order. That cantilever must be relieved P.D.Q.--every ounce skinned off it!”

”What--what's that?” asked Ashton, staring blankly. He had never before seen Blake agitated.

”You fool!” shouted Blake. ”You've got that outer arm loaded down with material 'way beyond the margin of safety. You d.a.m.ned fool, you made an error here in the figures--over the bottom-chords and posts. They'll hold anything, once the suspension span is completed, but now! Lord!

McGraw is a mule--he'll insist on a written order. Weather report says wind. And another train loading to run out on the overhang, when we ought to be hauling steel off!”

”Oh, we ought, ought we?” bl.u.s.tered Ashton, venturing bravado in view of Blake's agitation. ”Who d' you think is running this bridge, you barrel-house b.u.m? I'll give you to understand I'm the engineer in charge here. You're my a.s.sistant--my a.s.sistant! D'you hear?”

”Yes, yes!” urged Blake. ”Only scratch off an order! There's no time to lose! I'll do the work. For G.o.d's sake, hurry! You've a hundred men out there on that deadfall--a million dollars' worth of steel-work! Those bottom-chords may buckle any second!”

From eager pleading, Blake burst out in an angry roar: ”d.a.m.n you! Get busy! Write that order!”

Seized with desperate fear of the big form that leaned menacingly toward him over the desk, Ashton s.n.a.t.c.hed an automatic pistol from the top drawer, and thrust it out toward Blake.

”Stand back! Stand back! Keep away!” he cried shrilly.

Blake hastily stepped back. It was not the first time he had seen a panic-stricken fool with a pistol. The quick retreat instantly restored Ashton's a.s.surance. He rebounded from fear to contempt.

”You big bluff!” he jeered. ”Good thing you hopped lively. I'll show you! Thought I wasn't armed, did you?”