Rickard explained to the directors the necessity in his opinion of the spur-track and the quarry. Rock in great quantities would be needed; cars must be rushed in to the break. He urged the importance of clenching the issue. “If it’s not won this time, it’s a lost cause,” he maintained. “If it cuts a deeper gorge, the Imperial Valley is a chimera; so is Laguna Dam.”
The other men were drawn into the argument. Babcock leaned toward Hardin’s conservatism. MacLean was judicial. Estrada upheld Rickard. The spur-track, in his opinion, was essential to success. Hardin could see the meeting managed between the newcomer and the Mexican, and his anger impotently raged. His temper made him incoherent. He could see Rickard, cool and impersonal, adding to his points, and MacLean slowly won to the stronger side. Hardin, on his feet again, was sputtering helplessly at Babcock, when Rickard called for a vote. The appropriation was carried. Hardin’s face was swollen with rage.
Rickard then called for a report on the clam-shell dredge being rushed at Yuma. Where was the machinery? Was it not to have been finished in February?
Hardin said that the machinery was ready, waiting in San Francisco. The hull of the dredge could not be finished for a couple of months at least.
“Why not get the machinery here? What’s the use of taking chances?” demanded Rickard.
Hardin felt the personal implication. He was on his feet in a second. “There are no chances.” He looked at MacLean. “The machinery’s done. It’s no use getting it here until we’re ready.”
“There are always chances,” interrupted his opponent coolly. “We are going to take none. I want Mr. Hardin, gentlemen, appointed a committee of one to see that the machinery is delivered at once, and the dredge rushed. What’s the date?”
“April eleventh,” clicked the nickel-in-the-slot-machine-Babcock again. Had any one asked the time, his answer as swift without consultation would have been as exact. He lived with his watch under his eye. Every few minutes he assured himself as to his gain on eternity.
“Get it in before the heavy summer traffic begins,” instructed Rickard.
The working force was informally discussed. Hardin said they could depend on hobo labor. His enthusiasm took fire; he saw the work begun on his gate. “That class of men flock like bees to such work as this. There’s no trouble getting them; they just drop in. Curious, isn’t it, how such fellows keep track of the world’s work? You build a levee, you begin a bridge, and there’s your hobo on the spot. It’s good labor, too, though it’s fickle.” It was the other Hardin, the chiseled man of affairs and experience. Rickard agreed that they would find such help, but it would not do to rely on it. The big sewer system of New Orleans was about completed; he had planned to write there, stating the need. And there was a man in Zacatecas, named Porter—