The foreman shrugged. “Of course,” he admitted reluctantly. “In all probability, you saved me my job—and I’m grateful. But I hate to see a smart fellow like you lose out because you’re so—finical.”
“Finical?” Nash delivered the question leaning forward in his chair, the lines of his strong face set grimly, resolutely. Hooker’s features were indistinct now in the gloom; only the red end of his cigarette alternately glowed and died away. “You know better than that, Hooker. You’re giving your aid to a piece of dirty work—and inwardly I’m sure you’re ashamed. I can’t help you. I’ll leave to-morrow if you say so. I’m on the square, and I want others to be. This game hits me harder because it is aimed against the city of my birth. I was born in Los Angeles, and I’m proud of it. You’re cheating every one of its three hundred thousand citizens. They’re building this aqueduct, and they expect every man to do his duty.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Hooker. “You’re ringing in sentiment. It always did amuse me the way you natives blow your own horns. What the devil do you suppose the city of Los Angeles cares about you? Take it from me, Nash, sentiment and business don’t mix worth a cent.”
“Your opinions and mine differ on more than one subject,” Nash replied dryly.
Hooker tossed away his cigarette with a show of annoyance.
“You’re a mystery to me, Nash,” he declared.
Nash lighted the big lamp on the table before he answered:
“I don’t know why I should be. Is it because I——”
A broad, trembling beam of white danced through the uncurtained window, interrupting his speech. Both men turned instinctively. Hooker, the nearest to the window, suddenly exclaimed:
“That’s an automobile headlight! Now, who do you suppose would be fool enough to tackle these roads at this time of night?”