“I’ve been in the adit this afternoon,” observed the latter. “Colvin sent me along to where they are putting in the heavy timbering.” He laughed softly. “Well, they’re throwing away most of their money.”
“You’re sure?” inquired Weston.
“Am I sure!” expostulated his comrade. “I need only point out that I ought to be.”
“Then,” said Weston, reflectively, “unless they ask your opinion, which isn’t very probable, I’d say nothing about it. Some people don’t take kindly to being told they’re wrong. The thing doesn’t affect you, anyway.”
He was a little astonished at the change in his companion, for a sparkle crept into Grenfell’s watery eyes, and his voice grew sharper.
“You haven’t the miner’s or the engineer’s instinct; it’s the same as the artist’s,” he said. “He can see the unapproachable, beautiful simplicity of perfection, and bad work hurts him. I don’t know that it’s a crime to throw away money, but it is to waste intelligence and effort that could accomplish a good deal properly directed. Why was man given the power to understand the structure of this material world? I may be a worn-out whisky wreck, but I could tell them how to strike the copper.”
“Still,” said Weston, dryly, “I’d very much rather you didn’t. I don’t think that it would be wise.”
His companion left him shortly afterward, and it was some days later when the subject was reopened. Then Grenfell came to him with a rueful face.
“I’ve had an interview with the manager,” he explained.
“Well,” said Weston, sharply, “what did he say?”