"
Mr. Hapgood took the hand which she held out to him, bestowed upon her
a look which spoke of warm admiration tinged with half-melancholy
longing, sighed, relinquished her hand with a gentle pressure, and ran
down the steps.
"Good night, Jocelyn," he called, softly, from the little gate.
"Good night, Roger," she whispered.
CHAPTER XX
A certain old football phrase rang day and night in Conniston's brain,
"_It is anybody's game!_" Anybody's game! For there was a chance for
success in the Great Work, and he saw that chance clearly, and fought
hard for it. If everything went smoothly now, if Mr. Crawford gave him
five hundred more men, if there were no unforeseen obstacles set in
his way, no smashing accidents, he would see the ditches in
Rattlesnake Valley filled with water by the last day of September. He
had figured on everything, he had sat late into many a night after the
grind of a twelve or fifteen hour day, frowning over details,
calculating to the cubic yard what he must do each and every day,
going over his calculations with a care which missed no detail. And he
knew that he could play this game safely and win--if they would only
let him alone! And still he knew that it was anybody's game. Could
Swinnerton block him in some way which he could not foresee, could
Swinnerton make him lose a single day's work, could Swinnerton steal
his five hundred men as he had stolen men in the past, it was
Swinnerton's game.
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