Part 63 (2/2)

”You doughhead!” rejoined Blake. ”Can't you understand? I tell you that bridge--”

”_Bah!_ You knocker! I see your game. You know now that it's Papa Leslie's job; you want to get in charge--knock out my work--spoil the record I'm making. That's it! You think you'll get my place, and try to smooth things up with Genevieve.”

”Shut up!” commanded Blake, raising his fist.

Ashton hastily sighted the pistol, which he had half lowered.

”You--you--don't you threaten me! I'll shoot!” As Blake made no attempt to attack, he went on viciously: ”You'd better not! I'll show you! I'm the boss here--get out of here! You're fired! Get out; keep off my bridge; leave the grounds, or I'll have you kicked off!”

”You fool!” said Blake. He swung around and started off with stern determination. But within three strides he faced about again. ”You dotty fool! I had intended to let you down easy.”

He came back toward the desk, grim-faced and very quiet. Ashton was puzzled and disconcerted by this sudden change of front. The pistol wavered in his trembling hand.

”Keep away! Don't you touch me! Don't you come near me!” he half whimpered.

Blake advanced to the opposite side of the desk, and spoke in a tone of cool raillery: ”You're rattled. Better put up that gun. It might go off.”

”It will in half a second!” snapped Ashton.

Blake leaned forward and transfixed him with a stare of cold contempt.

”You thief!” he said. ”Your game is up. You sneak thief!”

Ashton lowered his pistol and cowered as though Blake had struck him.

”No, no! I'm not--I'm not! You haven't any proof--you can't prove it!”

”Proof?” growled Blake. ”When I've known it ever since I came up before--knew it the first look. My bridge from shoe to peak--every girder, every rivet--and my truss! Not another bridge in the world has that truss. You dirty sneak thief!--_Huh!_ you would, would you?”

Ashton had sought to raise and aim the pistol. This time Blake did not step back. Instead, he flung himself forward, and his hand closed in an iron grip on the wrist of the hand that held the pistol. The weapon fell from the paralyzed fingers.

Ashton made a frantic clutch with his left hand to regain the pistol, but he was jerked violently forward, up and over the desk. As he floundered across in a flurry of rustling, tearing maps and papers, he swore in shrill anger. Blake's left hand gripped his throat, His anger gave place to terror. He sought to scream, but the fingers tightened and throttled him. He was dragged across and down upon the floor, choking and gurgling. Blake bent lower.

”Lie still!” he ordered. ”I'm going to let go your throat. If you squawk, I'll break your neck!”

He removed his grip alike of wrist and throat, and Ashton, gasping and panting, felt gingerly of his throat with his soft fingers. He could not see the dark marks left by Blake's terrible clutch, but he could feel the bruises. He glared up, terror-stricken, into the pale hard eyes that blazed down into his own with a light like that of molten steel.

”You--you'll not--not murder me!” he panted.

”I'll break your neck if you don't keep quiet and mind,” menaced Blake.

He sprang erect. ”Get up to your desk--quick!”

Ashton needed no urging. As lie scrambled around to the chair, Blake picked up the automatic pistol and tested its mechanism with expert swiftness.

”Don't! Don't!” implored Ashton, dodging down.

”_Bah!_ Take that pen--write!” commanded Blake. Ashton clutched at his pen and an order pad. ”Steady, you fool! Now write, _'Bridge in danger.

Strip bare. Blake in charge.'_” Ashton scribbled with frantic swiftness. ”Got that? Sign your name in full as Resident Engineer.”

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