“Why, the miserable liars!” he raged. “There isn’t an official on the Short Line from President Ford down who owns a single share of stock in the High Line! We all did help out at first, but Ford made every man of us turn loose the minute the dam was completed and the project was securely on its feet. He insisted that we couldn’t afford to work for two dividend accounts!”
“He was quite right,” said Sprague calmly. “But that is neither here nor there. It was Jennings’s turn at bat and he took it. Let it go, and tell me what you hear from that good and reliable man, Disbrow, at Angels.”
“I had him on the wire myself, just a few minutes ago,” was the superintendent’s answer. “He says something has stirred things up over on the Mesquite. They’re working night shifts—began last night.”
“Rain?” queried the expert.
“How the devil do you manage to jump at things that way?” demanded Maxwell, half-irritably. “Yes; there have been cloud-bursts in the eastern foot-hills. The river rose two feet to-day.”
“Ah? That may bring on more talk—before the stenographers are ready to take it down. Any more items from Angels?”
“Nothing special. The Mesquite people got half a car-load of dynamite this morning. That shows you how careful Disbrow is; he is spotting everything—even the common routine things.”
“Um; dynamite, eh? What use has Jennings for so much high explosive as that?”
“I don’t know; uses it in excavating, I suppose. The more he uses, the bigger his rake-off from the powder company. Where there’s a big graft, there are always a lot of little ones.”
Sprague ate in silence for five full minutes before he said, quite without preliminary: “How long would it take a light special train to run from Brewster to Angels, with a clear track and regardless orders, Dick?”