CHAPTER VIA STEP UP
Dusk was falling when Dick went to keep his appointment with his employer. Fireflies glimmered in the brush beside the path, and the lights of Santa Brigida flashed in a brilliant cluster on the edge of the shadowy sea. High above, rugged peaks cut black against the sky, and the land breeze that swept their lower slopes brought with it instead of coolness a warm, spicy smell. There was more foliage when Dick reached the foot of a projecting spur, for a dark belt of forest rolled down the hill; and by and by he saw a big tent, that gleamed with a softened radiance like a paper lantern, among a clump of palms. It seemed to be well lighted inside, and Dick remembered having heard orders for electric wires to be connected with the power-house at the dam.
Fuller obviously meant to give his daughter all the civilized comfort possible, and Dick was glad he had been able to find a clean duck suit, though he was not sure he had succeeded in removing all the oily grime from his face. Nothing could be done with his hands. The knuckles were scarred, the nails broken, and the black grease from the engine had worked into his skin. Still, this did not matter much, because he had gradually overcome his fastidiousness and it was not likely that Miss Fuller would notice him.
She was, however, sitting outside the tent, from which an awning extended so as to convert its front into a covered veranda, and Dick was half surprised when she gave him a smile of recognition that warranted his taking off his hat. Then Fuller, beckoning him to come forward, switched on another lamp and the light fell on a table covered with plans. Dick stopped when he reached it and waited, not knowing how his employer meant to receive him.
“Sit down,” said Fuller, indicating a chair, and then gave him one of the plans, some paper, and a fountain pen. “Study that piece of digging and let me know the weight of stuff to be moved, the number of men you’d use, and what you think the job would cost.”
Dick set to work, and at once became absorbed. Twenty minutes passed and he did not move or speak, nor did he see the smile with which Ida answered Fuller’s look. In another ten minutes he put down the pen and gave Fuller his calculations.
“I think that’s near it, sir. I’m reckoning on the use of colored peons.”
Fuller nodded. “You haven’t left much margin for what we call contingencies. But they’re going to bring us some coffee. Will you take a cigar?”
A Chinaman brought out a silver coffee-pot on a tray, which he placed on a folding table in front of Ida, and since it was two or three yards from the other, Dick got up when she filled the cups. She gave him two, which he carried back, but remained where she was, within hearing but far enough away not to obtrude her society upon the others. Dick, who lighted his cigar, felt grateful to Fuller. It was sometime since he had met people of any refinement on friendly terms, and until he took up his quarters in the locomotive shed had been living in squalor and dirt.
There was not much furniture outside the tent, but the neat folding tables, comfortable canvas chairs, delicate china, and silver coffee-pot gave the place a luxurious look, and though Miss Fuller was, so to speak, outside the circle, the presence of a well-dressed, attractive girl had its charm. Indeed, Dick felt half embarrassed by the pleasantness of his surroundings. They were unusual and reminded him poignantly of the privileges he had enjoyed in England.
“Where did you learn to make these calculations?” Fuller asked after a time.
“In the British Army, Royal Engineers,” Dick answered with a flush.
“Were you an officer?”
Dick had dreaded the question. It looked as if truthfulness would cost him much; but he determined that his new friends should know the worst.
“Yes.”
“Then why did you quit?”
Dick glanced at Ida, and imagined that she was interested, though she did not look up.
“I was turned out, sir.”
“Ah!” said Fuller, without surprise. “May I ask why? It’s not impertinent curiosity.”
“I was sent with some important papers, which I lost. This was bad enough, but there was some ground for suspecting that I had stolen them.”
“Do you know how they were lost?”
Dick was grateful for the way the question wasput, since it hinted that Fuller did not doubt his honesty.
“No,” he said. “That is, I have a notion, but I’m afraid I’ll never quite find out.”
Fuller did not reply for a minute or two, and Dick, whose face was rather hot, glanced back at Ida. Her eyes were now fixed on him with quiet interest, and something in her expression indicated approval.
“Well,” said Fuller, “I’m going to give you a chance of making good, because if you had done anything crooked, you wouldn’t have told me that tale. You’ll quit driving the locomotive and superintend on a section of the dam. I’m not satisfied with the fellow who’s now in charge. He’s friendly with the dago sub-contractors and I suspect I’m being robbed.”
Dick’s eyes sparkled. His foot was on the ladder that led to success; and he did not mean to stay at the bottom. Moreover, it caused him an exhilarating thrill to feel that he was trusted again.
“I’ll do my best, sir,” he said gratefully.
“Very well; you’ll begin to-morrow, and can use the rooms behind the iron office shack. But there’s something you have forgotten.”
Dick looked at him with a puzzled air; and Fuller laughed.
“You haven’t asked what I’m going to pay you yet.”
“No,” said Dick. “To tell the truth, it didn’t seem to matter.”
“Profession comes first?” Fuller suggested. “Well, that’s right, but I’ve hired professional men, engineering and medical experts, who charged pretty high. Anyhow, here’s my offer—”
Dick was satisfied, as was Fuller. The latter was often generous and would not have taken unfair advantage of Dick’s necessity, but he did not object to engaging a talented young man at something below the market rate.
“While I’m here you’ll come over twice a week to report,” he resumed. “And now if there’s anything you’d like to ask.”
“First of all, I owe you a dollar,” Dick remarked, putting the money on the table. “The pay-clerk wouldn’t take it, because he said it would mix up his accounts. I’m glad to pay you back, but this doesn’t cancel the debt.”
“It wasn’t a big risk. I thought you looked played out.”
“I was played out and hungry. In fact, it took me five minutes to make up my mind whether I’d pay the agent who gave me your address his fee, because it meant going without a meal.”
Fuller nodded. “Did you hesitate again, after you knew you’d got the job?”
“I did. When we were hustled on board the steamer, there was nobody at the gangway for a few moments and I felt I wanted to run away. There didn’t seem to be any reason for this, but I very nearly went.”
“That kind of thing’s not quite unusual,” Fuller answered with a smile. “In my early days, when every dollar was of consequence, I often had a bad time after I’d made a risky deal. Used to think I’d been a fool, and I’d be glad to pay a smart fine if the other party would let me out. Yet if he’d made the proposition, I wouldn’t have clinched with it.”
“Such vacillation doesn’t seem logical, in a man,” Ida interposed. “Don’t you practical people rather pride yourselves on being free from our complexities? Still I suppose there is an explanation.”
“I’m not a philosopher,” Fuller replied. “If you have the constructive faculty, it’s your business to make things and not examine your feelings; but my explanation’s something like this—When you take a big risk you have a kind of unconscious judgment that tells you if you’re right, but human nature’s weak, and scares you really don’t believe in begin to grip. Then it depends on your nerve whether you make good or not.”
“Don’t they call it sub-conscious?” Ida asked. “And how does that judgment come?”
“I guess it’s built up on past experience, on things you’ve learned long since and stored away. In a sense, they’re done with, you don’t call them up and argue from them; but all the same, they’re the driving force when you set your teeth and go ahead.”
Ida looked at Dick. “That can’t apply to us, who have no long experience to fall back upon.”
“I’ve only made one venture of the kind, but I’ve just discovered that it turned out right.”
Fuller smiled. “That’s neat.” Then he turned to Ida. “But I wasn’t talking about women. They don’t need experience.”
“Sometimes you’re merely smart, and sometimes you’re rather deep, but I can’t decide which you are just now,” Ida rejoined. “However, I expect you’re longing to get back to the plans.”
“No,” said Fuller. “They have to be thought of,but life isn’t all a matter of building dams. Now I’m getting old, I’ve found that out.”
“And you? Have you any opinion on the subject?” Ida asked Dick.
Dick hesitated, wondering whether she meant to put him at his ease or was amused by his seriousness.
“I don’t imagine my views are worth much and they’re not very clear. In a way, of course, it’s plain that Mr. Fuller’s right—”
“But after all, building dams and removing rocks may very well come first?”
Dick pondered this. So far, his profession had certainly come first. He was not a prig or a recluse, but he found engineering more interesting than people. Now he came to think of it, he had been proud of Helen’s beauty, but she had not stirred him much or occupied all his thoughts. Indeed, he had only once been overwhelmingly conscious of a woman’s charm, and that was in Kenwardine’s garden. He had lost his senses then, but did not mean to let anything of the kind happen again.
“Well,” he said diffidently, “so long as you’re content with your occupation, it doesn’t seem necessary to make experiments and look for adventures. I expect it saves you trouble to stick to what you like and know.”
He noted Ida’s smile, and was silent afterwards while she argued with her father. He did not want to obtrude himself, and since they seemed to expect him to stay, it was pleasant enough to sit and listen.
The air was getting cooler and the moon had risen and cast a silver track across the sea. The distant rumble of the surf came up the hillside in a faint,rhythmic beat, and the peaks above the camp had grown in distinctness. A smell of spice drifted out of the jungle, and Dick, who was tired, was sensible of a delightful languor. The future had suddenly grown bright and besides this, Ida’s gracious friendliness had given him back his confidence and self-respect. He was no longer an outcast; he had his chance of making good and regaining the amenities of life that he had learned to value by their loss. He was very grateful to the girl and Fuller, but at length took his leave and returned to the locomotive shed with a light heart and a springy step.
Next morning he began his new work with keen energy. It absorbed him, and as the dam slowly rose in a symmetrical curve of molded stone, its austere beauty commanded his attention. Hitherto he had given utility the leading place, but a change had begun the night he sat beneath the copper-beech with Clare Kenwardine. The design of the structure was good, but Dick determined that the work should be better, and sometimes stopped in the midst of his eager activity to note the fine, sweeping lines and silvery-gray luster of the concrete blocks. There were soft lights at dawn and when the sun sank in which the long embankment glimmered as if carved in mother-of-pearl.
In the meantime, he went to Fuller’s tent twice a week and generally met Ida there. Once or twice, he pleaded with his employer for extra labor and cement to add some grace of outline to the dam, and, although this was unproductive expenditure, Fuller agreed.
“I like a good job, but it’s going to cost high if you mean to turn out a work of art,” he said. “However, if Bethune thinks the notion all right, I suppose I’ll have to consent.”
Dick colored, and wondered whether he had been given a hint, for Bethune was his superior and a man of ability.
“He doesn’t object, sir.”
“That’s good,” Fuller replied with a twinkle. “Still, if you hustle him too much, you’ll make him tired.”
Dick did not smile, because he did not know how far it was wise to go, but he suspected that Bethune had been tired before he came to the dam. The latter was generally marked by an air of languid indifference, and while his work was well done he seldom exceeded his duty.
Next evening Dick went to see Bethune and found him lying in a hammock hung between the posts of the veranda of his galvanized iron hut. A syphon and a tall glass filled with wine in which a lump of ice floated, stood on a table within his reach, and an open book lay upside down upon the floor. He wore white duck trousers, a green shirt of fine material, and a red sash very neatly wound round his waist. His face was sunburned, but the features were delicately cut and his hands, which hung over the edge of the hammock, were well cared for.
“Mix yourself a drink,” he said to Dick. “There’s a glass and some ice in the bureau inside. Anyhow my steward boy put some there.”
Dick, who went into the hut, came back with a grin. “There’s a bit of wet blanket, but the ice has gone. It seems to have run into your papers.”
“They’ll dry,” Bethune said tranquilly. “You had better put some of thegaseosain the wine; it’s sour Spanishtinto. Then if you like to pick up the book, I’ll read you some François Villon. There was redblood in that fellow and it’s a pity he’s dead. You get into touch with him better beside the Spanish Main than you can in New York.”
“I never heard of him, and perhaps I ought to explain——”
“What you came for? Then go ahead and ease your mind. It’s business first with you.”
“It occurred to me that I had perhaps taken too much upon myself now and then. You are my chief, of course, and I don’t want to look pushing.”
“That shows good taste,” Bethune remarked. “But how are you going to get over the difficulty that youarewhat you call pushing? Anyhow, I’m surprised it did occur to you.”
“To tell the truth, it was something Fuller said——”
“So I imagined! Well, when you go too far I’ll pull you up, but we needn’t bother about it in the meantime. You were obviously born a hustler, but you have an ingenuousness that disarms resentment. In fact, you quite upset our views of the British character.”
“Then the feeling’s mutual,” Dick rejoined with a grin. “You don’t harmonize with what I’ve seen of Americans.”
“Ours is a big country and we’ve room for different types; but I come from Georgia and we haven’t all learned to hustle yet in the South. That’s probably why I’m here, when I could have had a much better paid job.”
Dick did not doubt this, because he had seen something of the other’s mathematical powers. He was not a fool at figures himself, but Bethune could solve by a flash of genius problems that cost him laboriouscalculation. It was strange that such a man should be content to make a very modest use of his talents.
“I suppose you have met Miss Fuller,” Bethune resumed.
“Yes,” said Dick. “She made things pleasant for me when I first went to the tent. I like her very much.”
“Miss Fuller has most of the New England virtues, including a stern sense of her responsibility. I expect you don’t know if she shares her father’s good opinion of yourself.”
“I don’t know what Fuller’s opinion is,” Dick replied awkwardly.
Bethune laughed. “Well, he’s given you a good job. But why I asked was this: if Miss Fuller’s quite satisfied about you, she’ll probably put her maverick brother in your charge. She came here not long ago with the object of finding out if I was suited for the post, and I imagined learned something about me in a quiet way. It was a relief when she obviously decided that I wasn’t the proper man. The girl has intelligence. If she had asked me, I could have recommended you.”
“Do you know much about her brother?”
“I’ve learned something. The lad’s a breakaway from the sober Fuller type; and I think his views of life rather agree with mine. However, perhaps we had better let Miss Fuller tell you what she thinks fit. And now would you like some François Villon?”
“No,” said Dick firmly. “I want to see that Moran turns out his gang at sunrise and must get back.”
“Pick me up the book, anyhow,” Bethune replied, and laughed good-humoredly when Dick left him.
CHAPTER VIIDICK UNDERTAKES A RESPONSIBILITY
The glare of the big arc-lights flooded the broad, white plaza when Dick crossed it on his way to the Hotel Magellan. The inhabitants of Santa Brigida had finished their evening meal and, as was their custom, were taking the air and listening to the military band. They were of many shades of color and different styles of dress, for dark-skinned peons in plain white cotton, chattering negroes, and grave, blue-clad Chinamen mingled with the citizens who claimed to spring from European stock. These, however, for the most part, were by no means white, and though some derived their sallow skin from Andalusian and Catalan ancestors, others showed traces of Carib origin.
The men were marked by Southern grace; the younger women had a dark, languorous beauty, and although their dress was, as a rule, an out of date copy of Parisian modes, their color taste was good, and the creamy white and soft yellow became them well. A number of the men wore white duck, with black or red sashes and Panama hats, but some had Spanish cloaks and Mexican sombreros.
Flat-topped houses, colored white and pink and lemon, with almost unbroken fronts, ran round the square. A few had green lattices and handsome irongates to the arched entrances that ran like a tunnel through the house, but many showed no opening except a narrow slit of barred window. Santa Brigida was old, and the part near the plaza had been built four hundred years ago.
Dick glanced carelessly at the crowd as he crossed the square. He liked the music, and there was something interesting and exotic in the play of moving color, but his mind was on his work and he wondered whether he would find a man he wanted at the hotel. One could enter it by a Moorish arch that harmonized with the Eastern style of its front; but this had been added, and he went in by the older tunnel and across the patio to the open-fronted American bar that occupied a space between the balcony pillars.
He did not find his man, and after ordering some wine, lighted a cigarette and looked about while he waited to see if the fellow would come in. One or two steamship officers occupied a table close by, a Frenchman was talking excitedly to a handsome Spanish half-breed, and a fat, red-faced German with spectacles sat opposite a big glass of pale-colored beer. Dick was not interested in these, but his glance grew keener as it rested on a Spaniard, who had a contract at the irrigation works, sitting with one of Fuller’s storekeepers at the other end of the room. Though there was no reason the Spaniard should not meet the man in town, Dick wondered what they were talking about, particularly since they had chosen a table away from everybody else.
The man he wanted did not come, and by and by he determined to look for him in the hotel. He went up an outside staircase from the patio, round whichthe building ran, and had reached a balcony when he met Ida Fuller coming down. She stopped with a smile.
“I am rather glad to see you,” she said. “My father, who went on board the American boat, has not come back as he promised, and the French lady he left me with has gone.”
“I’m going off to a cargo vessel to ask when they’ll land our cement, and we might find out what is keeping Mr. Fuller, if you don’t mind walking to the mole.”
They left the hotel and shortly afterwards reached the mole, which sheltered the shallow harbor where the cargo lighters were unloaded. The long, smooth swell broke in flashes of green and gold phosphorescence against the concrete wall, and the moon threw a broad, glittering track across the sea. There was a rattle of cranes and winches and a noisy tug was towing a row of barges towards the land. The measured thud of her engines broke through the splash of water flung off the lighters’ bows as they lurched across the swell, and somebody on board was singing a Spanish song. Farther out, a mailboat’s gently swaying hull blazed with electric light, and astern of her the reflection of a tramp steamer’s cargo lamp quivered upon the sea. By and by, Dick, who ascertained that Fuller had not landed, hailed a steam launch, which came panting towards some steps.
“I can put you on board the American boat, and bring you back if Mr. Fuller isn’t there,” he said, and when Ida agreed, helped her into the launch.
Then he took the helm while the fireman started the engine, and the craft went noisily down the harbor.As they passed the end of the mole, Dick changed his course, and the white town rose clear to view in the moonlight behind the sparkling fringe of surf. The flat-topped houses rose in tiers up a gentle slope, interspersed with feathery tufts of green and draped here and there with masses of creepers. Narrow gaps of shadow opened between them, and the slender square towers of the cathedral dominated all, but in places a steep, red roof struck a picturesque but foreign note.
“Santa Brigida has a romantic look at night,” Dick remarked. “Somehow it reminds me of pictures of the East.”
“That is not very strange,” Ida answered with a smile. “The flat roof and straight, unbroken wall is the oldest type of architecture. Man naturally adopted it when he gave up the tent and began to build.”
“Yes,” said Dick. “Two uprights and a beam across! You couldn’t get anything much simpler. But how did it come here?”
“The Arabs found it in Palestine and took it to Northern Africa as the Moslem conquest spread. The cube, however, isn’t beautiful, and the Moors elaborated it, as the Greeks had done, but in a different way. The latter broke the square from the cornices and pillars; the Moors with the Saracenic arch, minarets, and fretted stone, and then forced their model upon Spain. Still the primitive type survives longest and the Spaniards brought that to the New World.”
“No doubt, it’s the explanation. But the high, red roofs yonder aren’t Moorish. The flat top would suit the dry East, but these indicate a country wherethey need a pitch that will shed the rain and snow. In fact one would imagine that the original model came from Germany.”
“It really did. Spain was overrun by the Visigoths, who were Teutons.”
“Well,” said Dick, “this is interesting. I’m not an architect, but construction’s my business, as well as my hobby.”
“Then don’t you think you are a fortunate man?”
“In a sense, perhaps,” Dick answered. “Still, that’s no reason you should be bored for my entertainment.” He paused and resumed: “I’m grateful because you mean to be kind, as you were the night I met you first at the tent. Although you had heard my story, I saw you wanted to make me feel I was being given a fresh start.”
Ida studied him with a thoughtful calm that he found embarrassing. “Perhaps I did, but suppose we talk about something else.”
“Very well. If it’s not bad form, I wasn’t in the least astonished by your lecture about the roofs, because one finds your people have a breadth of knowledge that’s remarkable. I once showed an old abbey near our place at home to some American tourists, and soon saw they knew more about its history than I did. There was a girl of seventeen who corrected me once or twice, and when I went to the library I found that she was right. The curious thing is that you’re, so to speak, rather parochial with it all. One of my American employers treated me pretty well until he had to make some changes in his business. Took me to his house now and then, and I found his wife and daughters knew the old French and Italiancities. Yet they thought them far behind Marlin Bluff, which is really a horribly ugly place.”
“I know it,” said Ida, laughing. “Still, the physical attractiveness of a town isn’t it’s only charm. Besides, are you sure you don’t mean patriotic when you say parochial? You ought to sympathize with the former feeling.”
“I don’t know. Patriotism is difficult when your country has no use for you.”
Ida did not reply, and it was a few minutes later when she said: “I’m glad I met you to-night, because we go home soon and there’s a favor I want to ask. My brother is coming out to take a post on the irrigation work and I want you to look after him.”
“But he mayn’t like being looked after, and it’s very possible he knows more about the work than I do. I’ve only had a military training.”
“Jake has had no training at all, and is three or four years younger than I think you are.”
“Then, of course, I’ll be glad to teach him all I can.”
“That isn’t exactly what I mean, although we want him to learn as much as possible about engineering.”
“I don’t see what else I could teach him.”
Ida smiled. “Then I must explain. Jake is rash and fond of excitement and gay society. He makes friends easily and trusts those he likes, but this has some drawbacks because his confidence is often misplaced. Now I don’t think you would find it difficult to gain some influence over him.”
“And what would you expect me to do afterwards?”
“You might begin by trying to make him see how interesting his new occupation is.”
“That might be harder than you think,” Dick replied. “Molding concrete and digging irrigation ditches have a fascination for me, but I dare say it’s an unusual taste. Your brother mightn’t like weighing cement in the hot mixing sheds or dragging a measuring chain about in the sun.”
“It’s very possible,” Ida agreed with a hint of dryness. “I want you to show him what it means; make him feel the sense of power over material. Jake’s rather boyish, and a boy loves to fire a gun because something startling happens in obedience to his will when he pulls the trigger. Isn’t it much the same when one gives the orders that shatter massive rocks and move ponderous stones? However, that’s not all. I want you to keep him at the dam and prevent his making undesirable friends.”
“Though it’s not the thing I’m cut out for, I’ll try,” said Dick, with some hesitation. “I’m surprised that you should put your brother in my charge, after what you know about me.”
“You were unfortunate, negligent, perhaps, for once.”
“The trouble is that my friends and relations seemed to think me dishonest. At least, they believed that my getting into disgrace was quite as bad.”
“I don’t,” said Ida calmly. “What I ask will need some tact, but if you’ll promise to look after Jake, I shall feel satisfied.”
Dick was silent for the next few moments, watching the phosphorescent foam stream back from thelaunch’s bows. Then he said: “Thank you, Miss Fuller. In a way, it’s embarrassing to feel you trust me; but I’ll do what I can to deserve it.”
Three or four minutes afterwards the launch steamed round the liner’s stern and ran into the gloom beneath her tall side. There was a blaze of light above that fell upon the farthest off of the row of boats, past which the launch ran with her engine stopped, and the dark water broke into a fiery sparkle as the swell lapped the steamer’s plates. A man came down the ladder when the launch jarred against its foot, and Ida, finding that Fuller was still on board, went up while Dick steamed across to the cargo-boat that lay with winches hammering not far off. After talking to her mate, he returned to the harbor, and when he landed, lighted a cigarette and studied some alterations that were being made at the landward end of the mole. He had noticed the work as he passed with Ida, but was now able to examine it. A number of concrete blocks and cement bags were lying about.
Beckoning a peon who seemed to be the watchman, Dick gave him a cigarette and asked: “How far are they going to re-face the mole?”
“As far as the post yonder, señor.”
It was obvious that a large quantity of cement would be required and Dick resumed: “Who is doing the work?”
“Don Ramon Oliva.”
Dick hid his interest. Ramon Oliva was the man he had seen talking to Fuller’s storekeeper at the hotel.
“Where does one buy cement in this town?”
“Señor Vaz, the merchant, sells it now and then.”
Dick let the peon go, and leaving the mole, found Vaz in a café. Sitting down at his table he asked: “Do you keep cement in your warehouse?”
“Sometimes,” said the other; “when work it is required for is going on. But I sold the last I had two or three months ago.”
“I believe we run short now and then, but we have a big lot being landed now. As our sheds will be pretty full, I could let you have a quantity if you like.”
“Thanks, but no,” said the merchant. “I do not think anybody would buy it from me for some time, and it is bad to keep when one’s store is damp.”
Dick, who drank a glass of wine with him, went away in a thoughtful mood. He wondered where Don Ramon got his cement, and meant to find out, though he saw that caution would be needed. He owed much to Fuller and had made his master’s business his. Now it looked as if Fuller were being robbed and although he had, no doubt, cunning rogues to deal with, Dick determined that the thing must be stopped. When he returned to the dam he went to Bethune’s hut and found him lying in his hammock.
“Whose duty is it to check the storekeeper’s lists?” he asked. “I suppose you strike a balance between the goods delivered him and the stuff he hands out for use on the works.”
“It’s done, of course,” said Bethune. “I haven’t examined the books myself; François, the Creole clerk, is responsible. However, one would imagine you had duties enough without taking up another, but if you mean to do so, you had better begin soon. Your energy won’t stand this climate long.”
“I don’t know what I may do yet,” Dick replied. “Still, it struck me that our stores might be sold in the town.”
“I expect they are, to some extent,” Bethune carelessly agreed. “That kind of thing is hard to stop anywhere, and these folks are very smart at petty pilfering. Anyway, you might get yourself into trouble by interfering and any small theft you stopped probably wouldn’t pay for the time you’d have to spend on the job. Leave it alone, and take matters as you find them, is my advice.”
Dick talked about something else, but when he went back to his shack he knew what he meant to do.
CHAPTER VIIIAN INFORMAL COURT
One morning, soon after Fuller and his daughter had gone home, Dick stood at a table in the testing house behind the mixing sheds. The small, galvanized iron building shook with the throb of engines and rattle of machinery, and now and then a shower of cinders pattered upon the roof; for the big mill that ground up the concrete was working across the road. The lattice shutters were closed, for the sake of privacy, and kept out the glare, though they could not keep out the heat, which soaked through the thin, iron walls, and Dick’s face was wet with perspiration as he arranged a number of small concrete blocks. Some of these were broken, and some partly crushed. Delicate scales and glass measures occupied a neighboring shelf, and a big steel apparatus that looked rather like a lever weighing machine stood in the shadow.
Where the draught that came through the lattices flowed across the room, Bethune lounged in a canvas chair, and another man, with a quiet, sunburned face, sat behind him. This was Stuyvesant, whose authority was only second to Fuller’s.
“Brandon seems to have taken a good deal of trouble, but this kind of investigation needs the strictestaccuracy, and we haven’t the best of testing apparatus,” Bethune remarked. “I expect he’ll allow that the results he has got may be to some extent misleading, and I doubt if it’s worth while to go on with the matter. Are you sure you have made no mistakes, Dick?”
Dick pondered for a few moments. If he were right, as he thought he was, the statements he had to make would lead to the discharge of the sub-contractor. Remembering his own disgrace, he shrank from condemning another. He knew what he had suffered, and the man might be innocent although his guilt seemed plain. It was a hateful situation, but his duty was to protect his master’s interests and he could not see him robbed.
“You can check my calculations,” he answered quietly.
“That’s so,” agreed Stuyvesant, who added with a dry smile as he noted Bethune’s disapproving look: “We can decide about going on with the thing when we have heard Brandon.”
“Very well,” said Dick, giving him some papers, and then indicated two different rows of the small concrete blocks. “These marked A were made from cement in our store; the lot B from some I took from Oliva’s stock on the mole. They were subjected to the same compressive, shearing, and absorbent tests, and you’ll see that there’s very little difference in the results. The quality of standard makes of cement is, no doubt, much alike, but you wouldn’t expect to find that of two different brands identical. My contention is that the blocks were made from the same stuff.”
Stuyvesant crossed the floor and measured theblocks with a micrometer gage, after which he filled two of the graduated glass measures and then weighed the water.
“Well?” he said to Bethune, who had picked up Dick’s calculations.
“The figures are right; he’s only out in a small decimal.”
Stuyvesant took the papers and compared them with a printed form he produced from his pocket.
“They correspond with the tests the maker claims his stuff will stand, and we can take it that they’re accurate. Still, this doesn’t prove that Oliva stole the cement from us. The particular make is popular on this coast, and he may have bought a quantity from somebody else. Did you examine the bags on the mole, Brandon?”
“No,” said Dick, “I had to get my samples in the dark. If Oliva bought the cement, he must have kept it for some time, because the only man in the town who stocks it sold the last he had three months ago. The next thing is our storekeeper’s tally showing the number of bags delivered to him. I sat up half the night trying to balance this against what he handed out and could make nothing of the entries.”
“Let me see,” said Bethune, and lighted a cigarette when Dick handed him a book, and a bundle of small, numbered forms. “You can talk, if you like,” he added as he sharpened a pencil.
Dick moved restlessly up and down the floor, examining the testing apparatus, but he said nothing, and Stuyvesant did not speak. He was a reserved and thoughtful man. After a time, Bethune threw the papers on the table.
“François isn’t much of a bookkeeper,” he remarked. “One or two of the delivery slips have been entered twice, and at first I suspected he might have conspired with Oliva. Still, that’s against my notion of his character, and I find he’s missed booking stuff that had been given out, which, of course, wouldn’t have suited the other’s plans.”
“You can generally count on a Frenchman’s honesty,” Stuyvesant observed. “But do you make the deliveries ex-store tally with what went in?”
“I don’t,” said Bethune dryly. “Here’s the balance I struck. It shows the storekeeper is a good many bags short.”
He passed the paper across, and Dick examined it with surprise.
“You have worked this out already from the muddled and blotted entries! Do you think you’ve got it right?”
“I’m sure,” said Bethune, smiling. “I’ll prove it if you like. We know how much cement went into stock. How many molded blocks of the top course have we put down at the dam?”
Dick told him, and after a few minutes’ calculation Bethune looked up. “Then here you are! Our concrete’s a standard density; we know the weight of water and sand and what to allow for evaporation. You see my figures agree very closely with the total delivery ex-store.”
They did so, and Dick no longer wondered how Bethune, who ostentatiously declined to let his work interfere with his comfort, held his post. The man thought in numbers, using the figures, as one used words, to express his knowledge rather than as ameans of obtaining it by calculation. Dick imagined this was genius.
“Well,” said Stuyvesant, “I guess we had better send for the storekeeper next.”
“Get it over,” agreed Bethune. “It’s an unpleasant job.”
Dick sent a half-naked peon to look for the man, and was sensible of some nervous strain as he waited for his return. He hated the task he had undertaken, but it must be carried out. Bethune, who had at first tried to discourage him, now looked interested, and Dick saw that Stuyvesant was resolute. In the meanwhile, the shed had grown suffocatingly hot, his face and hands were wet with perspiration, and the rumble of machinery made his head ache. He lighted a cigarette, but the tobacco tasted bitter and he threw it away. Then there were footsteps outside and Stuyvesant turned to him.
“We leave you to put the thing through. You’re prosecutor.”
Dick braced himself as a man came in and stood by the table, looking at the others suspiciously. He was an American, but his face was heavy and rather sullen, and his white clothes were smeared with dust.
“We have been examining your stock-book,” said Dick. “It’s badly kept.”
The fellow gave him a quick glance. “Mr. Fuller knows I’m not smart at figuring, and if you want the books neat, you’ll have to get me a better clerk. Anyhow, I’ve my own tally and allow I can tell you what stuff I get and where it goes.”
“That is satisfactory. Look at this list and tell me where the cement you’re short of has gone.”
“Into the mixing shed, I guess,” said the other with a half-defiant frown.
“Then it didn’t come out. We haven’t got the concrete at the dam. Are there any full bags not accounted for in the shed?”
“No, sir. You ought to know the bags are skipped right into the tank as the mill grinds up the mush.”
“Very well. Perhaps you’d better consult your private tally and see if it throws any light upon the matter.”
The man took out a note-book and while he studied it Bethune asked, “Will you let me have the book?”
“I guess not,” said the other, who shut the book with a snap, and then turned and confronted Dick.
“I want to know why you’re getting after me!”
“It’s fairly plain. You’re responsible for the stores and can’t tell us what has become of a quantity of the goods.”
“Suppose I own up that my tally’s got mixed?”
“Then you’d show yourself unfit for your job; but that is not the worst. If you had made a mistake the bags wouldn’t vanish. You had the cement, it isn’t in the store and hasn’t reached us in the form of concrete. It must have gone somewhere.”
“Where do you reckon it went, if it wasn’t into the mixing shed?”
“To the Santa Brigida mole,” Dick answered quietly, and noting the man’s abrupt movement, went on: “What were you talking to Ramon Oliva about at the Hotel Magellan?”
The storekeeper did not reply, but the anger and confusion in his face were plain, and Dick turned to the others.
“I think we’ll send for Oliva,” said Stuyvesant. “Keep this fellow here until he comes.”
Oliva entered tranquilly, though his black eyes got very keen when he glanced at his sullen accomplice. He was picturesquely dressed, with a black silk sash round his waist and a big Mexican sombrero. Taking out a cigarette, he remarked that it was unusually hot.
“You are doing some work on the town mole,” Dick said to him. “Where did you get the cement?”
“I bought it,” Oliva answered, with a surprised look.
“From whom?”
“A merchant at Anagas, down the coast. But, señores, my contract on the mole is a matter for the port officials. I do not see the object of these questions.”
“You had better answer them,” Stuyvesant remarked, and signed Dick to go on.
Dick paused for a moment or two, remembering how he had confronted his judges in a tent in an English valley. The scene came back with poignant distinctness.
He could hear the river brawling among the stones, and feel his Colonel’s stern, condemning gaze fixed upon his face. For all that, his tone was resolute as he asked: “What was the brand of the cement you bought?”
“TheTenax, señor,” Oliva answered with a defiant smile.
Then Dick turned to the others with a gesture which implied that there was no more to be said, and quietly sat down.Tenaxwas not the brand that Fuller used, and its different properties would have appeared inthe tests. The sub-contractor had betrayed himself by the lie, and his accomplice looked at him with disgust.
“You’ve given the thing away,” he growled. “Think they don’t know what cement is? Now they have you fixed!”
There was silence for the next minute while Stuyvesant studied some figures in his pocket-book. Then he wrote upon a leaf, which he tore out and told Dick to give it to Oliva.
“Here’s a rough statement of your account up to the end of last month, Don Ramon,” he said. “You can check it and afterwards hand the pay-clerk a formal bill, brought up to date, but you’ll notice I have charged you with a quantity of cement that’s missing from our store. Your engagement with Mr. Fuller ends to-day.”
Oliva spread out his hands with a dramatic gesture. “Señores, this is a scandal, a grand injustice! You understand it will ruin me? It is impossible that I submit.”
“Very well. We’ll put the matter into the hands of theJusticia.”
“It is equal,” Oliva declared with passion. “You have me marked as a thief. The port officials give me no more work and my friends talk. At theJusticiaall the world hears my defense.”
“As you like,” said Stuyvesant, but the storekeeper turned to Oliva with a contemptuous grin.
“I allow you’re not such a blamed fool,” he remarked. “Take the chance they’ve given you and get from under before the roof falls in.”
Oliva pondered for a few moments, his eyes fixedon Stuyvesant’s unmoved face, and then shrugged with an air of injured resignation.
“It is a grand scandal, but I make my bill.”
He moved slowly to the door, but paused as he reached it, and gave Dick a quick, malignant glance. Then he went out and the storekeeper asked Stuyvesant: “What are you going to do with me?”
“Fire you right now. Go along to the pay-clerk and give him your time. I don’t know if that’s all we ought to do; but we’ll be satisfied if you and your partner get off this camp.”
“I’ll quit,” said the storekeeper, who turned to Dick. “You’re a smart kid, but we’d have bluffed you all right if the fool had allowed he used the same cement.”
Then he followed Oliva, and Stuyvesant got up.
“That was Oliva’s mistake,” he remarked. “I saw where you were leading him and you put the questions well. Now, however, you’ll have to take on his duties until we get another man.”
They left the testing-house, and as Bethune and Dick walked up the valley the former said: “It’s my opinion that you were imprudent in one respect. You showed the fellows that it was you who found them out. It might have been better if you had, so to speak, divided the responsibility.”
“They’ve gone, and that’s the most important thing,” Dick rejoined.
“From the works. It doesn’t follow that they’ll quit Santa Brigida. Payne, the storekeeper, is of course an American tough, but I don’t think he’ll make trouble. He’d have robbed us cheerfully, but I expect he’ll take his being found out as a risk of the game;besides, Stuyvesant will have to ship him home if he asks for his passage. But I didn’t like the look Oliva gave you. These dago half-breeds are a revengeful lot.”
“I’m not in the town often and I’ll be careful if I go there after dark. To tell the truth, I didn’t want to interfere, but I couldn’t let the rogues go on with their stealing.”
“I suppose not,” Bethune agreed. “The trouble about doing your duty is that it often costs you something.”