"That will do, sir!—that will do!" gasped Mr. Leslie, shocked almost beyond speech.
"No, it won't do, Mr. H. V. Leslie!" retorted Blake. "I'm not one of your employees, to throw a fit when you put on the heavy pedal, and I'm not one of the lickspittles that are always baa-ing around the Golden Calf. You've had your say. Now I'll have mine. To begin with, let me tell you, I don't need your positions or your money. Griffith has given me work. I'm working for him, not you. Understand?"
"You are? He's my consulting engineer."
"That cuts no ice. I'm doing some work for him—for him; understand? It's not for you. He gave me the job—not you. After what you've said to me here, I wouldn't take a hundred-thousand-dollar job from you, not if I was walking around on my uppers. Understand?"
"But—but-"
Blake's anger burst out in volcanic rage. "That's it, straight! I don't want your jobs or your money. They're dirty! You've looked up my record, have you? How about your own? How about the Michamac Bridge? Griffith says the Coville Company has taken it over; but you started it—you called for plans—you advertised a competition. Where are my plans?—you!"
Mr. Leslie shrank back before the enraged engineer.
"Calm yourself, Mr. Blake!" he soothed in a quavering voice. "Calm yourself! This illusion of yours about lost plans—"
"Illusion?" cried Blake. "When I handed them in myself to your secretary—that dude, Ashton."
Mr. Leslie sat up, keenly alert. "To him? You say you handed in a set of bridge plans to my former secretary?"