This abrupt announcement changed Nash’s view of the situation. He remembered the letter he carried in his pocket, and to whom it was addressed.
“You are Wilson Hooker?” he asked.
The foreman nodded. “That’s me.”
“I came from Los Angeles this morning especially to find you,” Nash explained. “I want a job.”
“What can you do?”
“I’m willing to do anything from digging trenches to——”
The foreman shrugged. “I don’t need any one at present. I’ve ten men to every place.”
“As for references,” Nash said, ignoring the other’s declaration, “I have previously worked on——”
“I said I didn’t need any more help—and I mean it,” broke in the foreman.
“That isn’t the question, Mr. Hooker. I didn’t ask if you needed a man. I merely asked for a position. I have a letter here which you might like to see.”
The foreman evinced immediate interest. Nash brought out the letter and handed it to him. Hooker accepted it with a frown, read it through, and instantly he did so a transformation took place. His frown dissolved, his former suspicious and dubious manner became one of cordiality.
“Why didn’t you say something about this at first?” he exclaimed. “Of course I’ll find a place for you. Whatever Sigsbee says goes—especially in Camp Forty-seven.”
The abrupt and unexpected demeanor—the smile succeeding the frown—and the promptness with which the foreman offered him a position were not lost upon Nash. The latter realized vaguely, but none the less certainly, that the signature at the bottom of that letter carried a great deal of weight. Nash had never heard of Jim Sigsbee, but imagined he must be some one high in authority—possibly engineer in chief of the construction corps. He wondered how a man of the vagrant’s type had managed to gain such a letter—and for the moment his conscience troubled him. Hooker would have refused him a position had not these few written words and the seemingly magic name of Sigsbee been offered. Then, he wondered, was he doing the right thing by all concerned in remaining silent and accepting?
“Here’s where we get off,” Hooker announced. “We’ll cut across the hill and make the camp in five minutes.”
Nash obeyed, his mind fully made up. He would accept. The vagrant had had the opportunity to obtain a position, and had scorned it. Nash argued with himself that he was practically penniless, and that a job, however insignificant, was a necessity. He climbed down from the cement and followed the lead of the foreman, who by this time was disappearing over the shoulder of the hill.
“You geta the job?” yelled Joe, the driver, waving his hand and grinning, apparently having overheard some of the conversation. “Good for you! Maybe I see you again some day. Good-by!”
Nash returned Joe’s good wishes, and soon caught up with Hooker. They walked side by side down the rough trail, winding in and out, gradually reaching a lower level.
“I like your style,” said the foreman, breaking the silence that lasted between them. “You have one virtue that spells success.”
“What is that?”
“You know how to hold your tongue. That’s a valuable asset on this job.”
Rounding a cliff in their descent, Nash saw a clutter of boxlike houses spread out below him. Then the first, faint sounds of the construction work came to his ears—the clatter of steel, cries of men, snorting locomotives, and the peculiar whine of the glistening cables as they tightened over the derrick wheels. Ugly, white concrete walls, over which men scrambled like so many flies, contrasted vividly against the green of the valley.
Spiderlike webs of steel lifted here and there against the tender blue of the sky; great sections of piping dangled from cables apparently no larger than thread.
“There’s the camp,” said Hooker. “Biggest on the job. Two thousand men—wops, Japs, Hindus, and greasers included; also seven hundred horses.” After a pause, he added: “And the nastiest stretch of construction on the whole aqueduct.”
Every fiber in Nash’s body responded to this wonderful scene of activity, as a motor to a suddenly released current. He was keen to be there among the other workers.
They soon reached the first of the corrugated-iron shacks, all of which were built facing the single, tortuous street.
“You can have that little cabin back there,” Hooker told him. “It’s empty now. This large one belongs to me—sort of an executive headquarters. And, by the way, what am I to call you?”
“Elliot Nash.”
“Good!” The foreman grinned. “Sounds O.K. I hope we get along pleasantly, Nash.”
“I hope we do,” echoed Nash—and he meant it.