Bascomb laughed easily. “There’s never anything absolutely certain about railroads, my son, but we didn’t spend twenty thousand on the first survey for nothing.”
“Merely as a matter of curiosity,” said David, “how much did the second survey cost?”
“The second survey? Oh, yes, I see,” he replied in a tone intended to emphasize the insignificance of that matter; “a little difference of opinion among the directors as to the best route, you know. There is no doubt in the world but that the Lost Farm approach to the bridge over the gorge is the better one. As I recall it, it cost merely a few days’ extra work—about twelve hundred dollars, I believe.”
“Thank you,” said David, rising and taking his hat.
Bascomb stared at him. Exasperation and surprise commingled in his gaze. Ross’s indifference was puzzling. He recovered himself immediately, however. “Oh, by the way, David, Walter said he wanted to see you. He’s probably at the club now; but if you don’t find him there, drop in this evening. We should all be glad to see you.”
“Thank you, but I’m not feeling quite up to it—a bit tired.” He stared stupidly at the elder man for a moment and a feverish flush burned in his face as he fumbled with the pocket of his coat. He drew out a small box and laid it on the office table. “It’s too heavy,” he muttered. “Can’t carry it.”
“What’s the matter, David?”
“Nothing at all, only I wish you would sit still and not keep waving your arms that way—it’s annoying.”
“You’re not well, David. Sit down a minute.”
“No, I want to get to Tramworth before night. It’s getting dark and it’s a devil of a road.”