One day Gus and George, the colored man, were working at the far end of
the curved dam breast, the stone work having risen to four feet in
height. Bill was stooping to inspect the cement on the near end and the
view of the hill was cut off. Presently voices came to him, mostly a
sort of good-natured protest in monosyllables; then Thad's tones, low
enough to keep Gus from hearing.

"I tell you, Uncle, they're putting it over on you. It ain't any of my
business, but I hate to see you having your leg pulled."

"'Taint!" was the brief answer.

"Well, if you don't want to think so; but I know it. Look at this dam:
not over two feet thick and expected to hold tons of water. Wait till a
flood hits it. Will it go out like a stack of cards, or won't it? And
they're not using enough cement; one-fourth only with the sand."

"Grouting, broken stones," growled Mr. Hooper.

"Not sufficient, as you'll see. And does anybody want to say that a
two-inch pipe is going to run a water wheel with force enough to turn a
generator that will drive thirty or forty lights? Bosh!"

"They ought to know."

"You think they do, but have you any proof of it? What they don't know
would fill a libra--"

"How 'bout that there triang--what you call it? They knew that."