"Yes. I'm Conniston."
"All right." Truxton removed the lamp from the one chair in the room, placed it upon the window-sill, and sat down, pulling the chair around so that he faced Conniston. "You're goin' to work with me in the mornin'. Now, what do you know?"
His manner was abrupt, his voice curt. Conniston felt a trifle ill at ease under the man's piercing gaze, which seemed to be measuring him.
"Not a great deal, I'm afraid. You see, I—"
"I thought you were an engineer?"
"I am—after a fashion. Graduate of Yale—"
"Ever had any actual, practical experience?"
"Only field work in college."
"Ever had any experience handlin' men? Ever bossed a gang of men?"
"No."