“I knew I’d hear from you,” said Chalmers, “and I have already been at work on the thing. Of course, you saw what was in the papers.”
“No,” confessed Bobby. “Only the sporting pages.”
“You should read news, local and general, every morning,” scolded Chalmers. “The new city council, at their meeting last night, granted the Consolidated a franchise to put up poles and wires in this district for lighting.”
“But how could they?” expostulated Bobby. “Our contract with the city has several years to run yet, and guarantees us exclusive privilege to supply light, both to the city and to private individuals, in those twelve blocks.”
“That cleverly unobtrusive joker clause about ‘reasonably satisfactory service,’” replied Chalmers angrily. “By the way, have you investigated the cause of those accidents very thoroughly? Whether there was anything malicious about them?”
Bobby confessed that he had not thought of the possibility.
“I think it would pay you to do so. I am delving into this thing as deeply as I can, and with your permission I am going to call your father’s old attorney, Mr. Barrister, into consultation.”
“Go ahead, by all means,” said Bobby, worried beyond measure.
At five o’clock that evening Con Ripley came jauntily to the plant of the Brightlight Electric Company. Con was the engineer, and the world was a very good joke to him, although not such a joke that he ever overlooked his own interests. He spruced up considerably outside of working hours, did Con, and, although he was nearing forty, considered himself very much a ladies’ man, also an accomplished athlete, and positively the last word in electrical knowledge. He was donning his working garments in very leisurely fashion when a short, broad-shouldered, thickset young man came back toward him from the office.
“You’re Con Ripley?” said the new-comer by way of introduction.