“You call yourself an engineer. How do I know you are?”
Grant had said nothing about being an engineer. Doc Stooder had identified him right enough. What reason for his bluff, then?
“My dear sir, graduates of Boston Tech. do not carry their diplomas round with them on their key rings. You’ll have to take Bagley’s word for it that I’m an engineer if my own is not convincing.”
The gangling doctor took two turns of the office with enormous strides; one hand tugged at his straggling goatee. Abruptly he stopped by Grant’s chair.
“Young man, what need do you figure a doctor in Arizora would have of an engineer—more especial an engineer from New York? Why should I tell this Bagley, who’s as crazy as a June-bug, to fetch a graduate engineer out to Arizora? Engineers are a drug on the market here—and every one of ’em a crook.”
Grant’s patience snapped. He rose and strode to the door.
“Dr. Stooder, I didn’t come away out here to your town to have somebody play horse with me. When you are sober you can find me at the International Hotel.”
A grin started under Doc Stooder’s moustache and travelled swiftly to his ears.
“God bless my soul, boy! When I’m sober, you say. I’m never sober and I hope I never will be—”