“We are working on the closing span, and two months more ought to see the rails down and the trains running over them,” David reported, settling himself in a deep chair with one of the long-stemmed pipes. “Now that the cold weather is over, there is nothing to hold us back.”
“Lose much concrete in the freezing?”
“No; very little. We used your idea of tarpaulin coverings and a perforated steam-pipe and saved practically every yard we put in place. There was some little kicking on the part of the inspectors, but we got by with nearly all of it.”
“Huh!” grunted the big man. “A bunch of inspectors wouldn’t be happy if they couldn’t find something to kick about! That’ll do for the bridge. We’ll call it a back-number for you and pass it up. I’ve been letting you alone at Coulee du Sac; wanted to see what you were going to make of yourself—what you were made of.”
“I hope I haven’t disappointed you too badly,” David ventured.
“You haven’t; if you had, you wouldn’t be here to-night. Now then; are you ready to tackle something a good deal bigger than an assistant’s job on a concrete bridge?”
“I’ll tackle anything you give me; though I’m not asking you to push me any faster or farther than the good of the service will warrant.”
“Don’t you lose any sleep over that,” was the gruff retort. “You’ll never get any plums from me merely because you happen to be Adam Vallory’s son. For that matter, the shoe’s on the other foot. I’m thinking about giving you a hard job—a damned hard job. What do you know about the Nevada Short Line new-alignment project out in the Timanyoni country?”
David shook his head in token that he knew little.
“Practically nothing more than the technical articles in the engineering journals have told me.”