The company wants a
competent engineer to act as general superintendent of all of its
operations. Do you want the job? Who am I to offer it to you?" He
laughed softly. "Oh, I'm just its president."
* * * * *
Filled to bursting with hopeful toil, the days ran by. Again it was
night, the night before the first day of October. With the desert
about them, with the stars low flung in the wide arch of heaven, Argyl
and Greek Conniston stood at the edge of a deep canal which ran with
water to its level banks. And as they spoke to each other, looking
down into the future which belongs to them, contented, confident,
eager for the coming of the Great Day, a boy rode up to them upon a
shaggy pony and called:
"Mr. Conniston?"
"Yes," Greek answered. "What is it?"
It was a telegram. He read it by the light of the match he had swept
across his thigh. Argyl, bending forward, read it with him. It was
from New York.
"Mr. WILLIAM CONNISTON, Jr.,
"Superintendent Crawford Reclamation,
"Rattlesnake Valley.
"Good boy! Congratulations. They tell me you win.
"WM. CONNISTON, Sr."
Conniston, the bit of yellow paper crumpled between his fingers,
turned to Argyl.
"In the only thing which counts--to the uttermost--do I win, Argyl
dear?"
And Argyl, lifting her eyes to him frankly, proudly, held out her
hands.
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