“Yes, Bob,” said Steve Whitney seriously, “I want someone on whom I can rely to think quickly and not lose his head in an emergency. Rules and regulations must be broken when the jam is tight enough—and many tight jams occur in the Service. You proved to-day that you used your brains and were plucky enough to act on what your brain told you to do. Probably the few minutes you saved in getting me, were worth thousands of dollars to the Service and days of delay. If that spillway wall had broken, the buttress excavations would have filled and all the digging work would have had to be done over.”
Before Bob could stammer his thanks, the Chief continued, “Report to me in the morning. Better go back now and finish up your work.”
The conversation had taken place as they climbed the hill to the Upper Town. Now, Mr. Whitney went off in the direction of his cottage, and Bob to the office.
That night Jerry came in late to the room that he still shared with Bob.
“Lucky stiff!” he said pleasantly. “Beat me to it, didn’t you?”
“Reckon so,” grinned Bob happily. “Sore?”
“Not a bit—only wish I’d thought of it. Was the old man pleased?”
“He made me his rodman, if that’s any sign.”
“You are lucky but I’m mighty glad for you. It’ll be a heap more fun than that office work.”
Bob thought he detected a little note of disappointment in his chum’s tone, but the words of congratulation seemed sincere.