Mawkum’s yawn indicated the state of his mind.  He had spent the previous three weeks in elaborating the plans and specifications for a caisson to be used under a bridge pier—­our client assuring him that he had, to use his own words, “a dead sure thing on the award.”  When the bids were opened, Mawkum congratulated him on his foresight and offered to attend the funeral in a body, the client’s bid being some thirty per cent too high.  Little episodes like this add a touch of gayety to the hours spent in the top of the high building.

Mawkum’s yawn over—­it is generally in three sections, but can sometimes be curtailed—­I interrupted hurriedly with: 

“What sort of a structure is it?” I knew, but I wanted some other employment for his mouth.

“First order, screw pile, about a hundred and twenty feet high, stuck on a coral reef at the mouth of the harbor.  ’Bout like our Fowey Rocks, off the Florida coast.  She’s backing in.”  His eyes were still on the Tampico, the floes of North River ice hemming her in on all sides.  “Passengers’ll be off in an hour.  Wonder how they like our climate—­ little chilly for pajamas.”

Here Mawkum strolled into his room and began overhauling the contents of a rack of drawings piled one on top of the other like cordwood, labelled:  “Screw Pile Structures.”

The next morning there came a timid knock at Mawkum’s door—­the knock of a child with matches to sell, or of one of those dear sisters who collect for the poor.  At a second summons, a little louder than the first, the chief, with an impatient air, slid from the high stool facing his drawing board, and threw wide the door.

I craned my head and discovered a small, ivory-tinted individual in a Panama hat, duck trousers and patent-leather shoes.  Wrapped about his shrivelled frame, one red-lined end tossed gallantly over his shoulder, was an enormous Spanish capa.  This hid every part of his body from his chin to the knees of his cotton ducks.  From where I sat he looked like a conspirator in the play, or the assassin who lies in wait up the dark alley.  Once inside he wrinkled his shoulders with the shivering movement of a horse dislocating a fly, dropped the red-lined end of the capa, removed his Panama and began a series of genuflections which showed me at once that he had been born among a people who imbibed courtesy with their mother’s, or their cocoanut’s, milk.

“I am look’ for the Grandioso Engineer,” said the visitor.  “I am Senor Garlicho—­” Then a shade of uncertainty crossed his face:  Mawkum was still staring at him.  “It is a mistake then, perhaps?  I have a letter from Senor Law-ton.  Is it not to the great designer of lighthouse which I speak?” This came with more bows—­one almost to the floor.

The mention of Lawton’s name brought Mawkum to his senses.  He placed his fat hand on his vest, crooked his back, and without the slightest allusion to the fact that the original and only Grandioso occupied the adjoining room, motioned the visitor to a seat and opened the letter.