Carleton’s manner changed; he saw the pit that lay before him. If he were wrong, the written order would fix his responsibility; without that telltale record he could deny afterward having given the order, if good policy so demanded.
“Well, that ain’t necessary; you go ahead,” said Carleton, with less vehemence.
“I think it is, Mr. Carleton. You ask me to alter a bench-mark level which I know to be right, and which every man about us knows to be right. You refuse a written certificate if I do not carry out your orders, and yet you expect me to commit this engineering crime because of your personal opinion,—an opinion which you now refuse to back up by your signature.”
“I ain’t given you a single written order this season: why should I now?” in an evasive tone.
“Because up to this time you have asked for nothing unreasonable. Then you refuse?”
“I do, and I’m not to be bulldozed, neither.”
“Caleb,” said Sanford, with the air of a man who had made up his mind, raising his voice to the diver, still standing in the water, “put that rod on the edge of the iron band.”
Caleb felt around under the water with his foot, found the band, and placed on it the end of the rod. Sanford carefully adjusted the instrument.
“What does it measure?”
“Thirteen feet six inches, sir!” shouted Caleb.