“It isn’t exactly a luxury in our case; it’s a working necessity. Tunnel Number Three is part of a shortening project carried out two years ago. It dodges under Burnt Mountain and cuts out five and two-tenths miles of the costliest, crookedest track in Tumble-Tree Canyon; track that we were never able to keep open for ten days in succession during the summer season of cloud-bursts and heavy storms. It is a timbered tunnel a mile and a quarter long, and the greater part of it is through loose, dry shale that practically kiln-dries the timber arching. From the time we began using it we’ve been fighting fire in it almost daily.”
“Just so,” said the chemistry expert. “So now you are putting in electricity to get rid of the fire-throwing locomotives. Where do you get your juice?”
“In Lopez Canyon, about three miles from the eastern portal, there is an excellent water-power. Eventually we shall use electricity for the entire hill-pull over the Hophras and so make a very handsome reduction in our fuel account.”
“Good!” was the approving comment; and then the commentator came back to the details. “Electricity is another of my pet hobbies,” he confessed. “What company is installing you—General Electric?”
“No; a New York firm—Grafton Brothers. I never heard of them until they came here.”
Only the keenest of observers would have noted Sprague’s accession of interest at the mention of the brotherly firm name.
“The Graftons, eh?” he said slowly. “How did you come to give them the job?”
“We had nothing to do with it out here. The deal was made in New York, with the Pacific Southwestern officials.”
Sprague was nodding absently as if in answer to some unspoken query of his own when he said, “Have you ever met either of the Graftons, Dick?”
“No; they are only a name to me. Their representative on our job is an engineer named Stribling; a fine young fellow and a cracker-jack in his business. He was the man who turned out the crowd of sprinters for us to-night.”