The city inspector put in an appearance at eight o’clock, driving down from Camp Forty-six. Warned of his coming, Nash attempted to arouse Hooker, but failed absolutely. The foreman was dead to the world. Nash was always a quick thinker, but at this particular instant his brain worked at double time.
The inspector always examined the books of the camp, checked off the supplies, the pay roll, and the expense account, taking duplicate copies into Los Angeles. Hooker had always attended to this, being in full charge of the camp. Now, with the foreman in a drunken sleep, there was but one thing to do—and Nash set out to accomplish it.
He admitted the inspector to the large room in front, which served as an office.
“Where’s Hooker?” was the first question of the inspector.
“Very sorry, sir, but the foreman isn’t at all well,” Nash explained. “Has been under the weather all day, and just an hour or so ago we got him asleep. I don’t think there will be any necessity of calling him. I can check over the lists with you.”
“Not just the usual thing to do,” snapped the inspector irritably. “But I guess it’s the only way out of the difficulty. Besides, I want to drive on down to Forty-five before midnight—so we may as well begin.”
He removed his hat and coat, while Nash brought out the books and the voucher files and the pay roll. These the inspector went over critically and with a speed that suggested years of experience in similar work. When he came to a snag, Nash helped him out. Nash was surprised at his own familiarity with the details of construction, and more than once the inspector turned upon him a sharp, quizzical glance.
Finally, after checking over an endless row of figures, the man said: “What’s your position here?”
“I’m subforeman under Mr. Hooker.”
“Duties?”