"Great Scott! The graft in cement is appalling!" Challoner exclaimed before he had been on the work twenty minutes. He voiced his protest; he would not stop voicing it: for he found that the hospital was being built chiefly of sand and broken stone.
And so it was that the superintendent said:—
"I'll have to see him, boys. We must have him in with us on this."
But Challoner could not be "seen."
The superintendent shook his head, and later to the contractors he remarked:—
"Challoner is a dangerous man, I'm afraid."
The contractors laughed.
"Oh, he'll come around, all right!" they assured him. "They all do, after a bit."
But in this case, the superintendent happened to be right. And the "ring,"—the inner circle of the political organisation,—descended upon Challoner like a thousand of brick.
"Come, come," they said, "what's your game? What's your price? Name it and shut up. How many barrels of cement a day? Come, come now——"