“Rickard.”
The auditor recovered himself. “I would have heard of it, were it true. I am in close touch with the Los Angeles office.”
“It is true.”
“How do you know?” Ogilvie’s dismay was too sudden; the flabby facial muscles betrayed him.
“I’m Rickard.” The new general manager took the swivel chair behind the flat-top desk. “Sit down. I’d like to have a talk with you.”
“If you will excuse me,” Ogilvie’s bluff was as anemic as his crushed appearance. “I—I am busy this morning. Might I—trouble you—for a few minutes? My papers are in this desk.”
Rickard now knew his man to the shallow depths of his white-corpuscled soul. “If I won’t be in your way, I’ll hang around here. I’ve the day to kill.”
His sarcasm was lost in transit. Ogilvie said that Mr. Rickard would not be in his way. He would move his papers into the next room to-morrow.
The engineer moved to the French windows that opened on the alfalfa lawn. A vigorous growth of willows marked the course of New River which had cut so perilously near the towns. A letter, “b,” picked out in quick river vegetation told the story of the flood. The old channel, there it was; the curved arm of the “b,” one could tell that by the tall willows, had been too tortuous, too slow for those sweeping waters. The flow had divided, cutting the stem of the letter, carrying the flood waters swifter down-grade. The flow had divided,—hm! divided perhaps the danger, too! An idea in that! He would see that better from the water-tower he’d spied at entering. Another flood, and a gamble whether Mexicali or Calexico would get the worst of it. Unless one was ready. A levee—west of the American town!
“Excuse me, sir—do you need me?” He turned back into the room. He could see that MacLean was aching to get out of the room. Ogilvie had visibly withered. A blight seemed to fall on him as his white blue-veined fingers made a bluff among his papers.