“That’s your own gang, isn’t it? What are you stumbling over the figures for?”
“I—the figures are blotted. I couldn’t just make them out,” Nash answered.
The inspector grunted, and called for the next set. Another hour, and the inspection was over. The city representative thrust the sheaf of papers into his pocket, and hurriedly donned his coat and hat.
“Wonder how Hooker is by this time?” he asked.
Nash opened a door in the rear and peered into the darkened chamber. The inspector pushed past and walked to the bed.
“Hum-m-m!” he grunted. “He sure sleeps. Guess we won’t disturb him. Tell him everything’s O.K., will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Nash responded, thankful that the worst was over. He followed the man outside to where his team waited, bid him good night, and watched as the light buggy disappeared up the cañon road.
After that Nash returned to the office and went through a certain section of the pay rolls, comparing the added figures with the ones put down in his own book.
At the end of an hour he tiptoed in, saw that Hooker was still sleeping; then, blowing out the lamp, he closed the door and walked slowly over to his own cabin. Sleep, for the remainder of the night, was an impossibility. The Unexpected had landed a heavy blow.