Mudge pulled nervously at his mustache. "As a matter of fact," continued Mr. Symes, "I never permit myself to be identified with failures. When I see that things are shootin' the chutes I pull out." Mr. Symes laughed heartily. "I get from under." "V-very wise." For an instant, the infinitessimal part of a second, there was a glint of amusement in Prescott's mild eyes and, as he added, Mudge once more felt that uncomfortable warmth under his collar, "Symes and success are synonymous terms, I infer." Symes laughed modestly. "But to get down to business,"--there was a suggestion of weariness in Prescott's tone--"the water supply is ample?" "Oceans! Worlds of it, I might say." "The water rights perfect--stand the severest legal scrutiny?" "Absolutely!" "Only engineers of recognized ability consulted and employed upon a project of such magnitude, I infer?" Mr. Symes's hesitation was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. "The best obtainable." "And approximately 200,000 acres of segregated land can be reclaimed under your project?" "Every foot of it." "At an expense of $250,000, according to the figures in your prospectus?" "That's our estimate and the amount of our bond issue." "You believe you will have no difficulty in disposing of this land at $50 an acre?" "Dispose of it? They'll fight for it! Why," declared Mr. Symes, striking at the air with a gesture of conviction, "the whole country is land hungry." "It's a liberal return upon the investment," murmured Prescott. "It's a big thing! And think of the Russian Jews." "Pardon me?" "Colonization, you know, hundreds of Russian Jews out there raising sugar-beets for the sugar-beet factory, happy as larks." "To be sure--I had forgotten." Mr. Prescott reached for a prospectus upon the table at his elbow and looked at the picture of a factory with smoke pouring from myriad chimneys and covering nothing short of an acre. "The soil is deep then--strong enough to stand sugar-beets?" "Rotation of crops--scientific farming," explained Symes, "gives it a chance to recover." Prescott nodded. "I see. The length of the ditch is----" "Thirty-five miles and a fraction." "What is the normal width and what amount of water does it carry?" "Sixty-five feet and it carries six feet of water." "What is the slope?" "Two and a half feet per mile." "How much water to the acre is applied in your State?" Symes was showing some surprise. For a man who was not familiar with irrigation projects Prescott was asking decidedly pertinent questions, but Symes answered glibly-- "A cubic foot per second to each seventy acres." "And the yardage? What are your engineer's figures on the yardage?" Symes cleared his throat--a habit which manifested itself when he was nervous-- "It can be moved for ten to fifteen cents a cubic yard." "C-cheap enough." Prescott looked at him with interested intentness. "And the loose rock?" "Twenty-five to thirty." Symes stirred uneasily in his chair.