“He told me that some railroad chemist had blundered in making the tests.”
Shubrick’s laugh was soundless. “It was our man Congdon who did the blundering. After he had made the tests in our own lab., he was ass enough not to see to it that the railroad chemist didn’t get a whack at the stuff.”
“Are you trying to tell me that the cement wasn’t up to standard?” demanded Grimsby’s accessory.
“If you need to be told. It’s a ‘second,’ all right enough; it sets unevenly, and is otherwise off color; but nobody will ever know the difference after it’s in place in the bottom of the river.”
For a moment the air of the small bunk shack became stifling and David Vallory got up and went to stand in the doorway. When he turned back to Shubrick it was to say: “Then the whole thing was a frame-up, was it?—to enable us to work off a cheaper grade of Portland in a place where it couldn’t show up?”
“Of course it was. We have to play even when we can.”
“But I had that shipment analyzed myself. I sent samples of it to the university.”
“Then you took your samples from the wrong sacks, that’s all. I’m using the stuff in the caisson, and I guess I know what I’m talking about. It’s punk.”
“If that is so, why haven’t the railroad people found it out in a second test?”
“That’s easy. This time Congdon was right on the job and saw to it that they got the proper kind of samples. You needn’t look so horrified; the bridge isn’t going to tumble down.”