CHAPTER VIII.
ON THE FIFTEENTH.
For several weeks after this, things ran on smoothly. Nash progressed swiftly with his work, the usual perfect California weather prevailed, and Hooker remained sober.
One day the foreman left for Los Angeles on business, returning the same evening. The moment he caught sight of him, Nash’s heart sank. Hooker was so intoxicated that two of the office employees had to carry him from the wagon to his cabin.
“I thought you were going to cut out this sort of thing,” Nash said, helping the foreman into the room.
“Well—I jus’ couldn’t help it,” struggled Hooker. “I was—in town all—day. Saw—saw Sigsbee. We—had a glorious—time—so—so pleasant, the old man—is.”
“Do you know what day of the month this is?” asked Nash.
“Day of—the month?” repeated Hooker, smiling and shaking his head. “Sure—sure I do! It’s—Monday, ain’t it?”
“It’s the fifteenth, too. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“Fifteenth?” Hooker lifted his head, making a futile attempt to hold it steady. “What’s—that——”
“This is inspection day, Hooker. You knew it. The city inspector is below, in Forty-six. He’ll be here in another hour. You’ve got to brace up. Understand me? I’ll make you some hot coffee, and you take it down black.”
“’S’all right,” the foreman gulped. “Don’t worry. I’m—I’m not drunk. I’ve fooled ’em before—sure I have.” His head fell back upon the pillow, and he mumbled something to himself.
“If they find you in this condition, you know what it’ll mean, Hooker.”
Nash busied himself right away, leaving the foreman in charge of another man, while he hurried over to the kitchen and got a can of strong, black coffee.
“Get this down, Hooker,” he commanded firmly.
The foreman, who apparently had aroused himself to the necessity of immediate action, took a deep draft of the coffee.
“Ah-h!” he breathed finally. “That’s good. I’ll—be all—right. Jus’ let me—sleep for a few minutes.”
He fell asleep at once. Meanwhile, Nash joined the supper crowd, ate his meal in silence, and promptly returned to where the foreman was slumbering.
The city inspector put in an appearance at eight o’clock, driving down from Camp Forty-six. Warned of his coming, Nash attempted to arouse Hooker, but failed absolutely. The foreman was dead to the world. Nash was always a quick thinker, but at this particular instant his brain worked at double time.
The inspector always examined the books of the camp, checked off the supplies, the pay roll, and the expense account, taking duplicate copies into Los Angeles. Hooker had always attended to this, being in full charge of the camp. Now, with the foreman in a drunken sleep, there was but one thing to do—and Nash set out to accomplish it.
He admitted the inspector to the large room in front, which served as an office.
“Where’s Hooker?” was the first question of the inspector.
“Very sorry, sir, but the foreman isn’t at all well,” Nash explained. “Has been under the weather all day, and just an hour or so ago we got him asleep. I don’t think there will be any necessity of calling him. I can check over the lists with you.”
“Not just the usual thing to do,” snapped the inspector irritably. “But I guess it’s the only way out of the difficulty. Besides, I want to drive on down to Forty-five before midnight—so we may as well begin.”
He removed his hat and coat, while Nash brought out the books and the voucher files and the pay roll. These the inspector went over critically and with a speed that suggested years of experience in similar work. When he came to a snag, Nash helped him out. Nash was surprised at his own familiarity with the details of construction, and more than once the inspector turned upon him a sharp, quizzical glance.
Finally, after checking over an endless row of figures, the man said: “What’s your position here?”
“I’m subforeman under Mr. Hooker.”
“Duties?”
“In charge of the conduit construction.”
The inspector reflected a moment. “Wasn’t that Macmillan’s position?” he asked.
“Until a month or so ago,” Nash said. “Hooker dismissed him for incompetency.”
“So?” The inspector frowned, and appeared surprised. However, he asked no more questions.
“We’ll take the pay rolls now,” he said sharply, lapsing back into his former impersonal and businesslike way.
Nash produced the book and began to call off the different gangs, the numbers they went under, and the total wage list each subforeman was responsible for. He reached his own name, called out the four figures down on the sheet—then hesitated.
“What’s that again?” asked the inspector.
“Five thousand four hundred and eighty,” Nash read slowly, still puzzling over the discovery.
“Five thousand four hundred and eighty—O.K.,” repeated the other. Then, pen suspended in air, he said:
“That’s your own gang, isn’t it? What are you stumbling over the figures for?”
“I—the figures are blotted. I couldn’t just make them out,” Nash answered.
The inspector grunted, and called for the next set. Another hour, and the inspection was over. The city representative thrust the sheaf of papers into his pocket, and hurriedly donned his coat and hat.
“Wonder how Hooker is by this time?” he asked.
Nash opened a door in the rear and peered into the darkened chamber. The inspector pushed past and walked to the bed.
“Hum-m-m!” he grunted. “He sure sleeps. Guess we won’t disturb him. Tell him everything’s O.K., will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Nash responded, thankful that the worst was over. He followed the man outside to where his team waited, bid him good night, and watched as the light buggy disappeared up the cañon road.
After that Nash returned to the office and went through a certain section of the pay rolls, comparing the added figures with the ones put down in his own book.
At the end of an hour he tiptoed in, saw that Hooker was still sleeping; then, blowing out the lamp, he closed the door and walked slowly over to his own cabin. Sleep, for the remainder of the night, was an impossibility. The Unexpected had landed a heavy blow.