I want him bad, too. Do you happen to know one?"
"I know one. I won't say how much good he is, though. I'm an engineer
myself."
"You!" It was Argyl's voice, surprised but eager.
"My father is a mining engineer. He always wanted me to do something
for myself, you know." Conniston laughed softly. "He sent me to
college, and since I didn't care a rap what sort of work I did, I took
a course in civil engineering to please him. Civil, instead of
mining," he added, lightly, "because I thought it would be easier."
"Had any practical experience?" demanded Mr. Crawford. Conniston shook
his head. "It's too bad. You might be of a lot of use to me over
there--if you'd ever done anything."
Conniston colored under the plain, blunt statement. There it was
again--he had never done anything, he had never been anything. His
teeth cut through his cigarette before he answered.
"I didn't suppose that you could use me." He still spoke lightly,
hiding the things which he was feeling, his recurrent self-contempt.
"I don't suppose, that I know enough to run a ditch straight. I've
been rather a rum loafer."
Mr. Crawford smiled. "I suppose you have. But you are young yet,
Conniston. A man can do anything when he is young."
There was the grinding of wheels upon the gravel outside, a man's
voice, and then a man's steps.
A moment later Roger Hapgood, immaculate in a smartly cut gray suit
and gloves, came smiling into the library, his hand outstretched, his
manner the manner of a man so thoroughly at home that he does not stop
to ring.
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