The next day Hooker was both sober and repentant. He seemed to remember faintly what had transpired the night previous; and when Nash had finished breakfast, he called him aside.
“How did you make out last night, Nash?” he asked apprehensively. “Did you trip on anything?”
Nash had fully determined to see the foreman the first thing in the morning, and was glad of this opportunity to speak of the matter.
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“Why, wasn’t old Boyer, the inspector, here?”
“He was.”
“Well, how did you get around the affair? I was dead to the world, wasn’t I? What did the old crab say?”
“I explained matters as best I could,” Nash answered. “Said you were ill—which wasn’t a lie—and told him I’d pitch in and help him on the books.”
“What was the report?”
“He said everything was O.K.”
The foreman breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s something to be thankful for. You’re a brick, Nash! You certainly know how to handle some things.”
Nash accepted the praise, such as it was, without replying. The only thing that had been troubling him since the inspector’s departure leaped to his tongue.
“Do you know how many men are under me, Hooker?” he inquired.
“Why, I suppose so. Don’t you? Don’t the books show?”
“Yes, the books show—but they don’t balance with mine.”
The foreman allowed a frown to creep around his lips; his brow wrinkled. “What are you getting at, Nash?”
“I checked off the pay roll to Boyer last night,” Nash said. “Your books credit my department with something greater than five thousand dollars. There’s a mistake, of course. I allowed it to go at the time, because I wasn’t absolutely certain until I compared the totals with my own memoranda.”
During their conversation, they had gradually left the big dining hall and had covered perhaps a quarter of a mile in the direction of Nash’s operations. This last remark, delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone by Nash, brought Hooker to an abrupt halt.
“Your memoranda?” exclaimed the foreman. “Say, what are you driving at, Nash?”
“I’m trying to convince myself that those figures on the pay roll, which the inspector accepted as O.K., are mistakes—unintentional mistakes.”
“Are you serious?” demanded Hooker.
“I certainly am.”
“Do you mean to tell me that my books are—are off color?”
“I’d hate to believe it, Hooker,” Nash answered.
The foreman appeared to be dumfounded. “What—what sort of a memorandum have you been keeping?” he asked.
“A personal one,” said Nash. “I always believed in a system. I want to know what each of my men is accomplishing. I want to know just how much money I am spending for the city of Los Angeles, and what I am giving in return. One thing is absolutely certain: My salary list has never reached half the sum that you have me credited for.”
Hooker calmly folded his arms and stared at the speaker. “Nash,” he said, “do you remember what I said to you the first day we met?”
“I believe it was something about knowing when to shut my mouth, wasn’t it?”
“Exactly. I said I admired you because you seemed to be sensible, because you possessed a valuable asset in your silence. It seems my ideals are shattered.”
“Hooker,” Nash replied frankly, “I’m a native of Los Angeles. I love that city, and I’m going to protect its interests. I haven’t any authority over you, or over your dealings. I can only concern myself with the things——”
“Why didn’t you say you were a local man, in the first place?” interrupted the foreman. “I understood you came from New York.”
“I did come from there. But I was born and lived twenty-two years in Los Angeles. I’ve had enough experience in the engineering line to put me wise to a great many tricks, Hooker. This isn’t the first time I’ve bucked up against the same game.”
“Game?” retorted Hooker, his face clouding. “What the——”
“Yes, game!” Nash snapped out the word. “And padding the pay roll isn’t a very original one, either.”