“I got the bags in, and started the water, when I found the concrete wasn’t in proper condition. I couldn’t do other than stop the test.”
“What’s the matter with that concrete?” roared Macmillan. “I put it in myself two weeks ago. I want you to understand, young fellow, that I’ve been laying concrete for ten years, and I ought to know what I’m talking about.”
“Very well,” responded Nash. “There isn’t any argument. The concrete is too soft as it stands to-day. If the water was turned into the conduit now, the whole length of it would crumble like sugar.”
The subforeman’s face was a study; the tan and the dirt prevented it from changing color, but in spite of this Nash was aware that Macmillan’s temper was at blood heat.
“You lily-fingered shrimp, you!” he bellowed. “What do you mean by coming around and running my affairs? Just because I gave you a little authority, you think you can dictate to me, eh? Hey, you lazy sons of guns,” he called, addressing the laborers standing about, grinning, “pick up that hose and turn her into the conduit—and be quick about it!”
Nash flushed. “I don’t like to argue, Macmillan, but remember that I have warned you.”
“Remember bosh!” exclaimed the other savagely.
In another five minutes the sandbags were once more in place, and the water was roaring into the dammed basin. Nash watched the operation without further words. When the water began to flow over the edges of the conduit, and it was ordered shut off, Macmillan turned to him with a leer.
“Well, what’s the matter with that cement, eh? Wouldn’t hold, you said! Bah! Look at it! Solid as a piece of granite. Next time you get any advice just keep it to yourself.”
A newcomer pushed his way through the group gathered about the two men. Both of the latter turned at once. It was Hooker, the foreman of the camp.