He explained where there was leveling
called for, where the canal must be turned aside.
"We'd bring her straight through, and d--n the little knolls," he
cried, banging his fist down upon his table in sudden vehemence, "but
there is a time-limit on this thing, Conniston. And we've got to get
water here, right here in Valley City, when the last day is up. Not
twenty-four hours late, either. No, not twenty-four minutes!"
He ran the back of his hand across his moist forehead, and sat staring
out of the window as though he had forgotten Conniston's presence.
"What sort of a time-limit? I thought that Mr. Crawford was alone in
this thing, that he had the rest of his lifetime to finish it in if he
wanted to take that long."
Garton snorted.
"He's got until just exactly twelve o'clock, noon, on the first day of
October. If he is five minutes late--yes, five minutes!--there'll be
men right here holding stop-watches on the thing like it was a
blooming foot-race!--he'll be busted, ruined, smashed, and the whole
project a miserable abortion!" He paused a moment, biting the end of
his pencil. And before he went on he had turned his eyes steadily upon
Conniston's face, studying him. "If you're going to work with us, to
get into it with your sleeves rolled up like Bat Truxton and Billy
there and me and a few others of us, you might as well know in the
beginning what's what in this scrap.
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