Carleton’s manner changed; he saw the pit that lay before him. If he were wrong, the written order would fix his responsibility; without that telltale record he could deny afterward having given the order, if good policy so demanded. “Well, that ain’t necessary; you go ahead,” said Carleton, with less vehemence. “I think it is, Mr. Carleton. You ask me to alter a bench-mark level which I know to be right, and which every man about us knows to be right. You refuse a written certificate if I do not carry out your orders, and yet you expect me to commit this engineering crime because of your personal opinion,—an opinion which you now refuse to back up by your signature.” “I ain’t given you a single written order this season: why should I now?” in an evasive tone. “Because up to this time you have asked for nothing unreasonable. Then you refuse?” “I do, and I’m not to be bulldozed, neither.” “Caleb,” said Sanford, with the air of a man who had made up his mind, raising his voice to the diver, still standing in the water, “put that rod on the edge of the iron band.” Caleb felt around under the water with his foot, found the band, and placed on it the end of the rod. Sanford carefully adjusted the instrument. “What does it measure?” “Thirteen feet six inches, sir!” shouted Caleb. “Lonny Bowles,” continued Sanford, “take three or four of the men and go along the breakwater and see if Caleb is right.” The men scrambled over the rocks, Lonny plunging into the water beside Caleb, so as to get closer to the rod. “Thirteen feet six inches!” came back the voices of Lonny and the others, speaking successively. “Now, Captain Joe, look through this eyepiece and see if you find the red quartered target in the centre of the spider-web lines. You, too, skipper.” The men put their eyes to the glass, each announcing that he saw the red of the disk. “Now, Caleb, make your way across to the northwest derrick, and hold the rod on the band there.” The old diver waded across the concrete, and held the rod and target over his head. The men followed him around the breakwater,—all except Bowles, who, being as wet as he could be, plunged in waist-deep. Sanford turned the transit without disturbing the tripod, and adjusted it until the lens covered the target. “Raise it a little, Caleb!” shouted Sanford,—“so! What is she now?” “Thirteen feet six inches and—a—half!” “Right! How is it, men?” “Thirteen six and a half!” came back the replies, after each man had assured himself. “Now bring me a clean, dry plank, Captain Joe,” said Sanford. “That’s too small,” as the captain held out the short piece containing the record. Clean planks were scarce on the cement-stained work; dry ones were never found. Everybody went in search of a suitable plank. Carleton looked on at this pantomime with a curl on his lips, and now and then a little shiver of uncertain fear creeping over him. Sanford’s quiet, determined manner puzzled him.