Neale was about to inquire the name of the contractor, but he refrained, governed by one of his peculiar impulses.
“Anybody working when you got here?” he went on.
“Yes. Masons had been cutting stone for six weeks.”
“What’s been done?”
Coffee laughed harshly. “We got the three piers in—good and solid on dry bottom. Then along comes the rain—and our work melts into the quicksand. Since then we’ve been trying to do it over.”
“But why did this happen in the first place?”
Coffee spread wide his arms. “Ask me something easy. Why was the bottom dry and solid? Why did it rain? Why did solid earth turn into quicksand?”
Neale slapped the note-book shut and rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, that is not the talk of engineers,” he said, deliberately.
“The hell you say! What is it, then?” burst out Coffee, his face flushing redder.
“I’ll inform you later,” replied Neale, turning to the lineman. “Somers, tell this gang boss, Colohan, I want him.”