“What the dickens are you doing?” yelled the foreman of a surfacing gang, starting for the boy on a run. “Want to flood the works?”
“Keep your shirt on! Chief’s orders!” but he had to explain the whole matter before the man realized that he was not an anarchist. The foreman’s strength added to his was sufficient to give the water a clear outlet, and Bob saw with satisfaction that the body of water passing down the canal to the weakened spot was considerably less.
When he reported to the Chief he found that all danger was past and the gang at work making a permanent repair of the damage.
“Good work,” said Mr. Whitney as the boy came up. “Water slackened just in time.” Then he turned to Rutherford.
“When you finish the shoring, close the gate immediately.”
Suddenly Bob remembered that he had left his job in the office without anybody’s authority. The excitement had made him forget that he had a job. Now, when everything was quiet, the realization that probably he had been missed came to him and he started to make tracks in the general direction of the office. He had not gone far, however, when he heard a familiar voice hail him from behind. It was Mr. Whitney, so he slowed up and turned.
“Hold on, Bob. I want to speak to you.”
A moment later Mr. Whitney was beside him, an expression on his face which the boy could not fathom. It was a stern look yet there was a twinkle in the kind eyes. His first words were ominous.
“What are you doing away from your drawing board? Did Mr. Taylor send you for me?”
“No—no, sir,” stammered Bob, helplessly. “He wasn’t there—he’s in Las Cruces—”