“What are you paying a yard for moving dirt?”

“The same as before.”

“Not to me,” Pat responded, complacently.

“What do you mean?” Gretzinger demanded, angrily.

“It’s not enough.”

“Not enough!  You seem to imagine your contract doesn’t bind you.”

Pat slowly uncrossed his knees and stared at the speaker with a countenance of bewilderment.

“Now what in the world is the man talking about!  Contract?  The only contract I had with Bryant was an oral agreement to build the dam and move dirt at a certain day rate per man and per team, terminable at his option.  Oh, you mean the first contract to construct the ditch in a year!  We tore that up after he got notice from the Land and Water Board.”

“Well, we’ll continue the oral arrangement.”

“Not any more,” said Pat.

Gretzinger inspected the coal of his cigarette, replaced the latter between his lips, and glanced at Bryant.  But the engineer was maintaining his consideration of objects on the outside of the window.

“So you’re trying to hold me up,” was Gretzinger’s remark.

“You’re slicing the fat off Bryant, and therefore I’ll trim a bit off you,” Carrigan replied.  “You’re not the only one who can work a knife.  Once I used to sit back and let others keep all the easy money, but I don’t any more, not any more.”  With considerable relish he rolled the words upon his tongue and nodded at Gretzinger.

The latter scowled.

“How much do you want?” he demanded.

Pat spat, then remained pursing his lips while he engaged in calculation.  Once he shook his head and muttered, “Not enough,” and again after a time repeated the words.  The man by the stove glared at the seated contractor during the prolonged period of study as if he hoped his look would consume him.

“How much?” he questioned a second time, impatiently.

Pat looked up at Gretzinger from under his bushy eyebrows with a steely glint showing.  The lines of his weather-beaten face had hardened.

“I don’t like you,” he stated.  “I don’t like you at all.  When I work for people I don’t like, it costs them money.  I like you less and less all the time.  If I go ahead and finish the ditch, I’ll be liking you so little that I’ll be hating myself.  And when I don’t like any one that much, I don’t do it cheap.  The job will cost you one hundred thousand dollars.”

“You—­you——­” Gretzinger choked.

“Cash down before I move a wheel,” Pat added, calmly.

The other was white with rage.  He cast his cigarette upon the floor and ground it under his heel.  His lips worked and twisted in a vicious snarl.  Carrigan observed him unmoved; and Bryant had turned his head about to see.

“You grafters, you infernal thieves, you pair of rotten crooks!” he shouted, shooting murderous glances from one to the other.  “You’ve ‘framed’ me!  Arranged it between you.  Been waiting for me to come back so you could spring your game!  If there’s any law in this state, I’ll have you both where you belong for deliberately wrecking this company—­in a cell!”