“No. There is a delegation of ore-shippers coming down from Red Butte to-morrow, and I’ll be busy with it a good part of the day.”
After that the talk drifted to other things, among them the expert’s mission to the Timanyoni, which, he admitted in confidence, was the preliminary to a possible Government reclamation project. And finally, when Maxwell broke away to go back to his office across the plaza, his going or not going to the tunnel to be present at the turning on of the power current on the following day was left undecided.
According to the prearranged programme, Sprague left Brewster at daylight the next morning, riding with Starbuck to the upper valley of the Gloria where the first of the soil specimens were to be collected. But for some reason, saddle-soreness on the part of the tenderfoot, or another, the trip was a short one, ending a little after noon, when the two came jogging back through the Brewster streets.
From their corner table in the Topaz café, where they ate their late luncheon together, they saw Maxwell entertaining a party of the ore-shippers; and later Sprague, whose half-absent gaze seemed to miss nothing, saw a good-looking young fellow in shabby, work-stained brown duck push through the swinging glazed doors opening from the lobby and go around to whisper to Maxwell at the table of entertainment. Sprague called his companion’s attention to the new-comer.
“That will be Mr. Benson, chief engineer of the railroad, for a guess,” he ventured; and Starbuck nodded.
“Right you are. It’s Jack; and to look at him you sure wouldn’t think he was a married man, with a nice, tidy little wife at home, would you, now? He always looks as if he had just tumbled out of the dirtiest car in his work-train.”
The soil expert smiled leniently. “Possibly he is here on business, and sometimes business won’t wait,” he suggested. “See; your brother-in-law is excusing himself to the ore people and is going out with Benson. After we finish our luncheon I’ll ask you to do me a little favor, Mr. Starbuck. Find Mr. Maxwell and tell him we’re back—just on the chance that he didn’t see us over here in this dark corner of ours. I’d like to meet Mr. Benson, if it can be managed without too much trouble.”
Starbuck’s keen gray eyes searched the round, double-chinned face of his newly made acquaintance shrewdly.
“I reckon I’m on,” he said slowly. “I was beginning to climb on before you said anything. That New York crowd is after Dick and his railroad with a black-snake whip; I know that much. Is the whip getting ready to pop again?”
“I’m a little afraid it is, Mr. Starbuck, and I am hoping that Mr. Benson will be able to tell us whether it is or isn’t,” was the even-toned rejoinder. “At all events, I’d like to meet him and have a talk with him—some time before three o’clock. Bear the hour in mind, will you, please? and try to arrange it for me.”