The paralyzing news had lain in the faithful keeping of a confidential
operator and the white faced secretary who had guarded it jealously.
The latter followed to the private office. When the door was closed in
his face, he went to his own desk and sat blindly at his letters.
Clark stood at a big window that commanded the rapids. Deep lines were
furrowed suddenly on his face, and his eyes were like sunken bits of
cold, gray steel. He felt the gentle vibration of the mills, and
through it pierced the words of the telegram like a thin sharp voice
that would not be denied. It was fully an hour later that his call
sounded for the secretary.
"The rail mill will be closed shortly for temporary alteration. If you
are asked anything about it--and you will be--that is all you know.
This means that the furnaces must be blown down. I don't anticipate
any serious delay. You will repeat this telegram to Philadelphia, and
add that I will report more fully in the next twenty-four hours.
There's just one thing more. A good deal of importance will attach to
your manner and attitude for the next few days. That's all."
The young man nodded, finding it difficult to speak. There was nothing
unusual about his leader, except that the eyes were a little more deep
set, the voice a shade harder.
A few moments later, Clark stood in the rail mill watching the titanic
rolls spew out ribbons of glowing steel. It came over him in a
sickening flood that the whole giant undertaking was useless, and
instead of the supreme delight he experienced a few months before there
was now but a huge mechanical travesty that flouted the unremitting
strain and effort of years. He was defacing the everlasting hills with
dynamite to make something the commercial world did not want. A surge
of protest overcame his spirit, followed by a cynical contempt for the
futility of the best efforts of man. Impatiently he walked up to the
superintendent of the mill.
The latter touched a grimy hat. "We're on the last ten thousand tons
for the United," he said with a note of pride--"the mill's running
fine."
"It may be," snapped Clark acidly, "but shut it down. Your rails are
no good."