Brandon of the Engineers Part 12

d.i.c.k 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?"

"The _Tenax_, senor," Oliva answered with a defiant smile.

Then d.i.c.k turned to the others with a gesture which implied that there was no more to be said, and quietly sat down. _Tenax_ was not the brand that Fuller used, and its different properties would have appeared in the 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 d.i.c.k 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 quant.i.ty 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. "Senores, 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 the _Justicia_."

"It is equal," Oliva declared with pa.s.sion. "You have me marked as a thief. The port officials give me no more work and my friends talk. At the _Justicia_ all 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 fixed on 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k. "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 d.i.c.k 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," d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.sage. 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."

CHAPTER IX

JAKE FULLER

A month after Fuller sailed his son arrived at Santa Brigida, and d.i.c.k, who met him on the mole, got something of a surprise when a handsome youth landed and came straight towards him. Jake Fuller was obviously very young, but had an ease of manner and a calm self-confidence that would have done credit to an elderly man of the world. His clothes showed nice taste, and there was nothing about him to indicate the reckless scapegrace d.i.c.k had expected.

"You're Brandon, of course," he said as he shook hands. "Glad to meet you. Knew you a quarter of a mile off."

"How's that?" d.i.c.k asked. "You haven't seen me before."

"For one thing, you're stamped Britisher; then you had a kind of determined look, as if you'd come down to yank me right off to the irrigation ditches before I'd time to run loose in the city. Matter of duty to you, and you were going to put it through."

d.i.c.k said nothing, and Jake laughed. "Well, that's all right; I guess we'll hit it! And now we'll put out when you like. I laid in a pretty good breakfast on the boat; I like smart service and a well-chosen menu, and don't suppose you have either at the camp."

"They might be better," d.i.c.k agreed, feeling that he had promised Miss Fuller more than he might be able to perform. Then he told a peon to take Jake's luggage and led the way to a mule carriage at the end of the mole.

"I didn't expect to ride in a transfer-wagon," Jake remarked. "Haven't you any autos yet? If not, I'll indent for one when the next stock order goes home."

"Perhaps you had better wait until you see the roads."

"You're surely British," Jake replied. "If you'd been an American, you'd get the car first and make the roads fit in. However, you might tell the ancient dago to get a move on."

d.i.c.k was silent for the next few minutes. On the whole, he thought he would like Fuller, and made some allowance for the excitement he, no doubt, felt at beginning his career in a foreign country, but none for any wish to impress his companion. It was unlikely that the self-possessed lad would care what d.i.c.k thought of him, although it looked as if he meant to be friendly. Then as the sweating mules slowly climbed the rutted track out of the town d.i.c.k began to point out the changing level of the land, the ravines, or barrancos, that formed natural drainage channels from the high watershed, and the influence of drought and moisture on the cultivation. Jake showed a polite interest, but inquired what amus.e.m.e.nts were to be had in Santa Brigida, about which d.i.c.k gave him as little information as possible. If he had understood Miss Fuller's hints, the Spanish city was no place for her brother.

Jake spent the day following d.i.c.k about the works and made no complaint about the heat and dust, though he frowned when a shower of cement or a splash of oil fell upon his clothes. It was obvious that he knew nothing about engineering, but the questions he asked indicated keen intelligence and d.i.c.k was satisfied. A room adjoining the latter's quarters had been prepared for the newcomer, and they sat, smoking, on the veranda after the evening meal.

"Do you think you'll like your work?" d.i.c.k asked.

"I've got to like it, and it might be worse. Since I'm not allowed to draw or model things, I can make them, and I guess that's another form of the same talent, though it's considerably less interesting than the first."

"But perhaps more useful," d.i.c.k suggested.

"Well, I don't know. Our taste is pretty barbarous, as a rule, and you can't claim that yours is more advanced, but I allow that the Spaniards who built Santa Brigida had an eye for line and color. These dagos have a gift we lack; you can see it in the way they wear their clothes. My notion is that it's some use to teach your countrymen to admire beauty and grace. We're great at making things, but there's no particular need to make them ugly."

"Then you're a bit of an artist?"

"I meant to be a whole one and might have made good, although the old man has not much use for art. Unfortunately, however, I felt I had to kick against the conventionality of the life I led and the protest I put up was a little too vigorous. It made trouble, and in consequence, my folks decided I'd better be an engineer. I couldn't follow their arguments, but had to acquiesce."

"It's curious how you artists claim to be exempt from the usual rules, as if you were different from the rest of us."

"We _are_ different," Jake rejoined with a twinkle. "It's our business to see the truth of things, while you try to make it fit your formulas about what you think is most useful to yourself or society. A formula's like bad spectacles; it distorts the sight, and yours is plainly out of focus.

For example, I guess you're satisfied with the white clothes you're wearing."

"I don't know that it's important, but what's the matter with them?"