“Well, we supposed you knew. It’s Lee.”
Neale started as if he had received a stab; the name hurt him in one way and was a shock in another.
“Allison Lee—the commissioner?” he asked, thickly.
“Sure. Oh, we’re in right, Neale,” replied Blake, with a laugh of relief.
Swift as an Indian, and as savagely, Neale sprang up. He threw the roll of bills into Blake’s face.
“You try to bribe me! ME!” burst out Neale, passionately. “You think I’ll take your dirty money—cover up your crooked job! Why, you sneak! You thief! You dog!”
He knocked Blake down. “Hold—on—Neale!” gasped Blake. He raised himself on his elbow, half stunned.
“Pick up that money,” ordered Neale, and he threatened Blake again. “Hurry!... Now march for camp!”
Neale walked the young engineer into the presence of his superior. Coffee sat his table under the fly, with Somers and another man. Colohan appeared on the moment, and there were excited comments from others near by. Coffee stood up. His face turned yellow. His lips snarled.
“Coffee, here’s your side partner,” called Neale, and his voice was biting. “I’ve got you both dead to rights, you liars!... You never even tried to work on my plans for Number Ten.”