With the foreman, it was: “Sigsbee wants this,” and “Sigsbee wouldn’t stand for that,” and very often “Sigsbee is the live wire on this aqueduct deal.” Sometimes he was referred to as “the old man.”
One evening, while visiting in Hooker’s cabin and checking up some of the work already completed, the foreman handed a newspaper to Nash.
“The old man’s getting to be a real sport,” he said, laughing. “Look what the Los Angeles Times has to say about his dinner party.”
Nash read the item:
“A novel and delightful slumming party was given last night in honor of the eldest daughter of Jim Sigsbee, the well-known politician. The party of thirty were taken through Chinatown and afterward enjoyed a supper in the underground quarters of Sing Foo, the Chinese mayor. To add to the novelty, the guests were taken in automobiles to Long Beach, where the braver members indulged in a midnight swim.”
Nash joined in the foreman’s laugh. “Society in the West is getting as hard up for novelties as the crowd at Newport,” he ventured, returning the paper.
Later, however, as he bid Hooker good night and strolled slowly across to his own shack, he had drawn one conclusion that started him on the right path, at least.
“Sigsbee is a well-known Los Angeles politician,” he told himself, quoting the line from the newspaper item. “And his family stands well in society. The question is now: What has he to do with Camp Forty-seven?”
Nash let himself into the shack, and, divesting himself of some of his clothes, sat down beside the window and took in the view of the valley. The brilliant moonlight flooded the land with silver.
“The aqueduct is a municipal affair,” he replied, bringing up all the facts in the case. “Sigsbee is a prominent politician. Engages personally all the better class of help on Camp Forty-seven. All the bills are paid from the Los Angeles treasury.”