"Superficial, v-very superficial, just a little I picked up in railroad
construction."
There were more questions as to loss of water by seepage, air and
subsoil drainage, drops, earth canals, character and depth of soil,
possibilities of alkali, all of which questions Symes answered readily
enough, but which at the conclusion left Symes with the exhausted
feeling of a long session on the witness stand.
"There are still something like $150,000 worth of bonds in the market, I
believe?"
"Approximately." It was Mudge who spoke up hopefully.
"And there is no doubt in your mind, Mr. Symes, but that with this
amount you can finish the work at the specified time and in a manner
satisfactory to the State engineers?"
Symes jingled the loose change in his trousers pockets and replied with
a large air of confidence--
"None whatever, sir."
Mr. Prescott arose and stood for a moment thoughtfully stroking the back
of one gray suede glove with the tips of the other.
"I--I will take the matter up with my p-people and give you their
decision shortly."
His eyes were lowered so he did not see the look which made Symes's face
radiant for an instant, but he may have imagined it was there, for his
lips curved in ever so faint a smile.
"It has been a p-pleasure to meet you, Mr. Symes." Prescott extended a
gray suede hand. "I do not feel that the hour has been wasted, since I
have learned so m-much."
"Ask any question that occurs to you: my time is at your disposal as
long as I am here." Symes shook his hand heartily in a strong western
grip. "Great pleasure to converse with a gentleman again, I assure you."
Symes and Mudge looked at each other when the door had closed upon his
back.
"Tractable as a kitten!" exclaimed Symes, beaming.
"Think so?" Mudge did not seem greatly elated.
"Why, yes; don't you?" Symes looked surprised.
"'Tractable' isn't just the word I'd ever apply to Prescott," he
answered dryly. "You don't understand his kind."
"You're wrong there," Symes answered with asperity. "But don't you think
we're goin' to land him?"
Mudge shrugged his shoulders.
"I'll bet you a hat!" cried Symes confidently. "I know the difference
between a nibble and a bite. I tell you Prescott's hooked."
"I hope you're right"--Mudge's tone was doubtful--"but get it out of
your head that he's an easy mark. I know that outfit; they're
conservative as a country bank. Prescott didn't ask questions enough."
"Didn't ask questions enough? Lord amighty, he was cocked and primed."
Mudge smiled grimly.
"Not for Prescott. Besides, it's not like them to go into a proposition
like this without further investigation. If they'd send an engineer back
with you I'd begin to hope."
"Bosh!" Symes exclaimed impatiently. "My name counts for something in a
game like this."
Mudge was unresponsive.
"Gentlemen understand each other," Symes went on complacently,
"intuition--hunch--kind of a silent sympathy. I tell you, Mudge, I'm
goin' to win a hat off you."
After leaving the office of Mudge, the promoter, J. Collins Prescott,
sauntered into a secluded waiting room in a near-by hotel and sank into
the depths of a huge leather chair. He took a voluminous type-written
report from the pocket of his fashionable top-coat and fell to studying
it with interest and care. He was engrossed in its contents for nearly
an hour, and when he had finished he replaced it in his pocket. Then he
sauntered to the telegrapher's station in the corner of the hotel office
and wrote upon a blank with swift decision a telegram which seemed a
trifle at variance with the almost foppish elegance of his appearance.
The telegram read:
Crooked as a dog's hind leg. Buy.