CHAPTER VII.
GETTING ACQUAINTED.
Nash accepted his new responsibilities in a manner that won him instant favor, not alone from his superiors, but from the men under him—the motley siftings of many races. And in turn Nash interested himself in their welfare. Knowing that as a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, so he knew that a body of men, striving for one end, must, work collectively and without friction to reach that goal.
In the beginning, he determined upon a certain amount of work to be completed in a daily shift. He took the men into his confidence—made them feel a part of his responsibility—encouraged them to strike a record and never fall short of it. Nor was it an easy victory, this final whipping into line—with kindness and consideration instead of the usual oaths and doubled fists—of the passive Hindus, the silent, stolid-faced Japs, the crafty, catlike Mexicans, and the cheerful, singing Italians. But it was accomplished, and in time Nash became known as possessing the best working crew on the length of the aqueduct.
Hooker said to him one day: “Nash, you’re doing more work and better work with half the number of men than Macmillan did with a full crew—and in a third the time. There’s a hundred-dollar bonus coming to you for last month’s construction.”
The aqueduct being a municipal undertaking, the city of Los Angeles awarded a bonus each month to the foreman under whose direction more than the average amount of work was done. The thought that his gang had won out over all the others on the whole construction was a feather in Nash’s cap, and he felt as proud as though he had won a million. When the money was presented to him, he took it and distributed the sum among the men. Encouraged by this gift, they won for him the bonus during the following two months.
During all this period, devoting every thought to his work, Nash was irritated by Hooker’s peculiar manner—his sly questioning, veiled suggestions, and his continual drunken sprees. While no liquor was allowed in any of the camps, the foreman kept his own cabin well stocked, and when a man wanted a drink he knew just where to get it.
Realizing the exposure which would surely come, Nash spoke to the foreman about it, but gained nothing more than a wink and a slap on the back.
“What the devil, Nash!” he would say. “A man’s got to have a little recreation. I’m built for so much work and so much play. Nothing like a little redeye to cheer a fellow up. Blamed sorry you won’t join in the fun.”
“It’s against the city regulations,” Nash said. “The inspectors will get wise one of these days. Then your head will go in the basket.”
But Hooker waved aside all the arguments. “I’m running Camp Forty-seven, Nash, and I’m pretty particular as to who I’m treating. Besides, Sigsbee knows just what is going on—and he looks the other way. Oh, Sigsbee is a live one, he is.”
The mention of Sigsbee’s name brought a flood of recollections upon Nash. Hitherto he had fought shy of this man—the mysterious person who had signed the letter that gained him his position—not because he was afraid, but because he did not care to muddle up the affair should it come to answering questions.
Hooker took it for granted that Nash knew Sigsbee, and all his conversation was based on this fact. Many a time Nash was puzzled as to the proper answer to give when the subject was brought up, but so far had managed very nicely to thwart any suspicion which the foreman might have entertained. That it could not last forever, Nash knew well enough; but how it was to end, and where, and at what cost, was beyond the horizon.
Being on intimate terms with Hooker, Nash marveled at the system that prevailed in the matter of engaging help. The newcomer stood no chance in the world unless he brought with him a note signed with that magic name of Sigsbee. The common laborers, however, were the one exception to this ironbound rule.
With the foreman, it was: “Sigsbee wants this,” and “Sigsbee wouldn’t stand for that,” and very often “Sigsbee is the live wire on this aqueduct deal.” Sometimes he was referred to as “the old man.”
One evening, while visiting in Hooker’s cabin and checking up some of the work already completed, the foreman handed a newspaper to Nash.
“The old man’s getting to be a real sport,” he said, laughing. “Look what the Los Angeles Times has to say about his dinner party.”
Nash read the item:
“A novel and delightful slumming party was given last night in honor of the eldest daughter of Jim Sigsbee, the well-known politician. The party of thirty were taken through Chinatown and afterward enjoyed a supper in the underground quarters of Sing Foo, the Chinese mayor. To add to the novelty, the guests were taken in automobiles to Long Beach, where the braver members indulged in a midnight swim.”
Nash joined in the foreman’s laugh. “Society in the West is getting as hard up for novelties as the crowd at Newport,” he ventured, returning the paper.
Later, however, as he bid Hooker good night and strolled slowly across to his own shack, he had drawn one conclusion that started him on the right path, at least.
“Sigsbee is a well-known Los Angeles politician,” he told himself, quoting the line from the newspaper item. “And his family stands well in society. The question is now: What has he to do with Camp Forty-seven?”
Nash let himself into the shack, and, divesting himself of some of his clothes, sat down beside the window and took in the view of the valley. The brilliant moonlight flooded the land with silver.
“The aqueduct is a municipal affair,” he replied, bringing up all the facts in the case. “Sigsbee is a prominent politician. Engages personally all the better class of help on Camp Forty-seven. All the bills are paid from the Los Angeles treasury.”
A sudden idea flashed over him, but it seemed so preposterous that he laughed it away.
“I can’t afford to worry too much about Sigsbee,” he said. “I’ll do the best I know how with the job I have, and if it comes to a show-down, I’ll confess the truth about the letter.”