“No, you don’t!” shouted Dillingham. “You fellows are dispossessed.”
He took down the receiver.
“Waterworks engineer’s office?” came a brisk voice through the telephone.
“Yes,” said Dillingham.
“This is the Chronicle. The Bulletin has an extra——”
Dillingham waited to hear no more. He hung up the receiver with a grin, and it was music in his ears to hear those bells impatiently jangling for the next ten minutes. It seemed to quicken his intelligence, for presently he slapped his hand upon his leg and jumped toward the group of employees in the corner.
“Say!” he demanded. “Who figured on this job for the Middle West Company?”
“Dan Rubble, I suppose,” answered a lanky draftsman, who, still wearing his apron, had slipped his coat on over his oversleeves and retained his eye-shade under his straw hat. “At least, he seemed to know all about the plans. He’s the boss contractor. There he is now.”
Looking out of the window Dillingham saw a brawny, red-haired giant running from the tool-house, carrying a cylindrical tin case about five feet long. He pulled off the cap of this as he came and began to drag from the inside of the case a thick roll of blue-prints. He was hurrying toward a big asphalt caldron underneath which blazed a hot wood fire.
“Come on, Biff,” yelled Dillingham, and hurried out of the door, closely followed by Bates.