Next morning, bright and early, Neale went down to the river to make his close inspection of what had been done toward building Number Ten.  From Colohan he ascertained the number of shafts and coffer-dams sunk; from the masons he learned the amount of stone cut to patterns.  And he was not only amazed and astounded, but overwhelmed, and incensed beyond expression.  The labor had been prodigious.  Hundreds of tons of material had been sunk there; and that meant that hundreds of thousands of dollars also had been sunk.

Upon investigation Neale found that, although many cribbings had been sunk for the piers, they had never been put deep enough.  And there were coffer-dams that did not dam at all—­useless, senseless wastes of time and material, not to say wages.  His plans called for fifty thirty-foot piles driven to bedrock, which, according to the excavations he had had made at the time of survey, was forty feet below the surface.  Not a pile had been driven!  There had been no solid base for any of the cribbings!  No foundations for the piers!

At the discovery the blood burned hot in Neale’s face and neck.

“No blunder!  No incompetence!  No misreading of my plans!  But a rotten, deliberate deal! ...  Work done over and over again!  Oh, I see it all now!  General Lodge knew it without ever coming here.  The same old story!  That black stain—­that dishonor on the great work! ...  Graft!  Graft!”

He clambered out of the wet and muddy hole and up the bank.  Then he saw Blake sauntering across the flat toward him.  Neale sat down abruptly to hide his face and fury, giving himself the task of scraping mud from his boots.  When Blake got there Neale had himself fairly well in hand.

“Hello, Neale!” said Blake, suavely.  “Collected some mud, I see.  It’s sure a dirty job.”

“Yes, it’s been dirty in more ways than mud, I guess,” replied Neale.  The instant his voice sounded in his ears it unleashed his temper.

“Sure has been a pile of money—­dirty government money—­sunk in there,” rejoined Blake.  He spoke with assurance that surprised Neale into a desire to see how far he would go.

“Blake, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

A moment of silence passed before Blake spoke again.  “Sure.  And it’ll blow you good, too,” he said, breathing hard.

“Every man has his price,” replied Neale, lightly.

Then he felt a big, soft roll of bills stuffed into his hand.  He took it, trembling all over.  He wanted to spring erect, to fling that bribe in its giver’s face.  But he could, control himself a moment longer.

“Blake, who’s the contractor on this job?” he queried, rapidly.

“Don’t you know?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, we supposed you knew.  It’s Lee.”

Neale started as if he had received a stab; the name hurt him in one way and was a shock in another.

“Allison Lee—­the commissioner?” he asked, thickly.