CHAPTER V.
THE DAY’S WORK.
The next few days, for Nash, were filled with excitement—the grasping of the thousand and one details, the understanding of the remarkable system that prevailed under Hooker’s direction, and the method in which the work was carried forward. Every minute of the eight hours counted; in the tunnel work, three shifts kept the bore progressing at the rate of twelve feet a day, which, as Nash soon learned, was a world’s record for hard rock.
Hooker put Nash on the easiest part of the construction work, namely, the conduit building, possibly because it required less technical knowledge and was the cleanest. Nash would have preferred a more responsible place, but as it was to serve merely as an opening wedge—to show the foreman he was capable of better things—he did not demur.
“I’ll put you under Macmillan,” Hooker said, “He’s my first assistant on the conduit work. You’ll take his orders. Know anything about cement?”
Nash smiled. “A little,” he admitted.
“Well, you’ll learn. Find out all you can. Macmillan will probably put you at checking up the cubic feet laid; meanwhile you can watch the work and get the hang of things. I’m off for San Fernando.”
Previous to this, Nash had met Macmillan—most of the subforemen ate at the same general table—and when he presented himself with the information that Hooker had ordered him on this part of the job, Macmillan accepted it as final.
“What can you do?” he growled, apparently not pleased over breaking in a new hand.
“Give me a chance at anything,” Nash answered.
“Good at figures?”
“Yes.”
Macmillan grunted. “Get that steel tape and measure up the concrete laid last week. It’s a quarter of a mile behind us. The carpenters are taking off the forms. I’ve had it checked once, but a double count won’t do any harm—and we’ll see how much you know.”
He whirled abruptly on his heel and yelled something up to the engineer of the big electric shovel. Nash did not wait for further orders, but found the tape and tramped off down the gully in the direction indicated by the subforeman.
For several miles here the course of the future aqueduct lay along the side of the mountain, flanked deep with soil. This made the excavation work easy. Huge steam and electric shovels, working with the method and precision of a human hand, could dig a trench as swiftly as the carpenters could follow with their falsework.
The plastic mass of sand, gravel, and cement was poured into these wooden forms and allowed to harden for a week, after which time all the molds were stripped away. Then measurements were taken of the completed work, checked back through the different books, and finally O.K.’d by the foreman of the camp.
Nash found his task quite easy, and followed right at the heels of the carpenters as they stripped off the wooden molds, entering the cubic yards in his notebook. At four o’clock he had finished, and promptly returned to Macmillan.
“What you doing back here at this hour?” snapped the subforeman. “Get tired?”
“I’ve finished,” Nash replied.
“Finished? You mean you’ve checked up all that concrete?”
“Here’s the book. Look for yourself.”
Macmillan took the book, rapidly thumbed the pages, and then swore softly. “I didn’t think it was in you, young man,” he declared. “Why, the regular fellow often takes two days on the same job.”
“It’s really a simple matter, once you get the hang of it,” Nash said modestly. “Anything else you want me to do?”
Macmillan reflected a moment, his cold eyes traveling from Nash’s muddy boots to the slouch hat that covered his brown hair. It was a critical, impersonal glance that one might bestow upon a piece of interesting and complicated machinery. Nash realized he was being weighed in the balance. The subforeman was surprised, but did not want to betray his feelings; finally he said, in a matter-of-fact tone:
“Hooker left orders that we were to test a length of the finished conduit to-day. Suppose you could attend to it?”
“Certainly,” Nash replied, without hesitation.
“Very well, then. You’ll find a gang of wops a quarter of a mile down the line, awaiting orders. You hurry down and start things. I’ll happen along presently—soon as I get this confounded shovel to working right, and help you out.”
Satisfied that Macmillan’s opinion of him was an agreeable one, Nash hurried away, and soon reached the finished stretch of glistening concrete. Here a group of laborers were resting. Nash gave out his orders, and instantly the men were running this way and that, preparing for the test.
Hundreds of sandbags had been conveniently placed, and these were dumped into the conduit, damming it for a length of several hundred feet. Into this improvised basin a stream of water was turned. On all concrete work a certain amount of seepage and percolation is naturally expected, and it is to determine the exact amount that these tests are made.
Superintending the placing of the sandbags at each end of the finished section of the conduit, Nash did not examine closely the walls until the first water began to pour from the huge nozzle. Standing on the cement floor, protected by a slicker and hip boots, which he had borrowed from one of the men, he unintentionally struck the steel-nosed pole he carried against the white wall.
Instantly recognizing the new sound—one that should not have been given—he broke into a shout:
“Stop that water! Stop it!”
The man guiding the nozzle waved a hand to some one stationed back on the hill, and the stream was shut off.
“Get the hose out of the way, boys,” he said sharply. “We won’t need it this afternoon.”
The men frowned, but offered no objection. They reluctantly recoiled the hose, and began shifting the sandbags. While this was in progress, Macmillan strode up. By this time, Nash had finished with his observations in the conduit and had climbed to the rim, where he was removing his boots.
“What’s this?” asked Macmillan, aware that something out of the ordinary was going on. “What are they coiling up that hose for?”
“I ordered them to do so,” calmly replied Nash.
“You did? Well, I like your nerve! What in Sam Hill have you got to say about testing this conduit? I asked you to come here and start operations. Now you do the very opposite thing.”
“I wouldn’t have ordered the men to stop if I didn’t think it necessary, Mr. Macmillan.”
“Is that so?” the other sneered, hands to his hips. The laborers had gathered around and seemed to be enjoying the argument.
“I got the bags in, and started the water, when I found the concrete wasn’t in proper condition. I couldn’t do other than stop the test.”
“What’s the matter with that concrete?” roared Macmillan. “I put it in myself two weeks ago. I want you to understand, young fellow, that I’ve been laying concrete for ten years, and I ought to know what I’m talking about.”
“Very well,” responded Nash. “There isn’t any argument. The concrete is too soft as it stands to-day. If the water was turned into the conduit now, the whole length of it would crumble like sugar.”
The subforeman’s face was a study; the tan and the dirt prevented it from changing color, but in spite of this Nash was aware that Macmillan’s temper was at blood heat.
“You lily-fingered shrimp, you!” he bellowed. “What do you mean by coming around and running my affairs? Just because I gave you a little authority, you think you can dictate to me, eh? Hey, you lazy sons of guns,” he called, addressing the laborers standing about, grinning, “pick up that hose and turn her into the conduit—and be quick about it!”
Nash flushed. “I don’t like to argue, Macmillan, but remember that I have warned you.”
“Remember bosh!” exclaimed the other savagely.
In another five minutes the sandbags were once more in place, and the water was roaring into the dammed basin. Nash watched the operation without further words. When the water began to flow over the edges of the conduit, and it was ordered shut off, Macmillan turned to him with a leer.
“Well, what’s the matter with that cement, eh? Wouldn’t hold, you said! Bah! Look at it! Solid as a piece of granite. Next time you get any advice just keep it to yourself.”
A newcomer pushed his way through the group gathered about the two men. Both of the latter turned at once. It was Hooker, the foreman of the camp.
“Hello!” he said. “What’s the row?”
Macmillan waved a hand toward Nash. “This fellow you sent over to me this morning has been trying to hand out advice.”
“How’s that?”
“I sent him here to test this conduit, as you’d ordered, and he refused to do it.”
Hooker frowned. “Is that right, Nash?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why did you refuse?” the foreman demanded.
“Because that length of concrete is in no condition for a test, Mr. Hooker. It’s soft. I told Macmillan about it, but he only laughed.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed the subforeman, pointing to the subject of the dispute. “There it is! What’s the matter with it? The water’s holding. This man is trying to show off; that’s all.”
Hooker stepped nearer, and knelt beside the cement rim. As he bent his head, some one behind him yelled. The next instant, with a roar, the whole side of the conduit crumbled away. Hooker caught himself just in time. The excited laborers were shouting like mad.
Nash was the least surprised of the crowd. He had read the signs in the peculiar ring of the concrete. He knew it was too soft to stand the tons of water; he had been helpless before the subforeman’s authority. Now, smiling a little at the scared face of Macmillan, he stood vindicated.
After the excitement had died away, Hooker looked at Nash.
“I guess you were right, after all,” he said quietly.
Macmillan recovered sufficiently to defend himself. “This isn’t the first conduit that’s bursted,” he cried. “Accidents will happen. I tell you, that cement was sound as a dollar.”
Hooker turned to face him. “I suppose, after Nash warned you, you examined the length of conduit very carefully?”
Macmillan flushed and stammered. “Well, not exactly,” he said, conscious of his predicament. “But I—knew—knew there——”
“You mean, you thought you knew—isn’t that it?” Hooker interrupted sternly. “You hated to admit your ignorance. To tell the truth, Mac, there’s been altogether too many of these tests turning failures—too much time and money wasted. The engineer in chief is complaining. I can’t be everywhere, so I trusted you. You’ve fallen down. I’m sorry, Mac, but you’d better drop over to the shack in the morning and get your money.”
The subforeman tossed his head indifferently. “Fired, eh? Well, maybe it’s for the best. When it comes to taking a white-fingered kid’s advice and ignoring mine, I give up.”
He turned on his heel and strode away.
Five minutes later Hooker and Nash were walking slowly back toward camp and headquarters. Neither had spoken for the interval. Finally Hooker said bluntly:
“Nash, you know a lot more about this business than you’re telling. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, sir. I’m a graduate engineer—four years at college and three years of practical experience.” Nash confessed openly and frankly, now that his position was established. He had proved his worth and had reason to be proud of it. “I’ve been working in the East all the time. I was on the New York aqueduct until last September.”
“What made you leave?” the foreman asked.
Only for an instant did he hesitate. “Because I—hurt a man,” Nash said, taken somewhat aback by the unexpected question.
Hooker looked swiftly into the speaker’s eyes, and smiled—a peculiar, leering, knowing smile that brought the color to Nash’s cheeks.
“Is that so? Well, you couldn’t have picked out a better place than this. No questions asked, and none expected. Do you know, Nash, I’m liking you better and better every day. You’ll come up to expectations, all right. By the way,” he said later, “to-morrow you are to take the position of conduit foreman—Macmillan’s old job.”
TO BE CONTINUED.