"Do what you're told," repeated Clark with the least shake in his
dominant voice. "The United doesn't want these rails, though some one
else will."
Over the superintendent's sooty face crept a look of blank amazement.
"Shut down! why?" he floundered helplessly. "I can't, till this heat
is through, and there's nothing the matter with the rails."
"Other people say there is, so get the heat through and obey orders."
Then, with sudden anger, "Is the job too big for you?"
He turned away abruptly, passing the whirling flywheel, the ponderous
cylinders, the glowing ovens, while above him the traveling crane moved
like a whining monster across the blackened roof. He hastened,
desirous of getting out of the presence of these giants whom he had
assembled only in order that they might deride him with their massive
proportions.
So on to the towering masses of the furnaces. Here he saw poured a
molten charge, and stood fascinated, as always, by the smooth and
deadly gleam of molten metal, till, curtly, the same orders were
issued. No further charges should be fed in before orders to that
effect. Then back to his office, where he cancelled shipments of coke,
and sent to the iron mine a curt word that stilled the boom of dynamite
and silenced the sharp chatter of the drills.
Gradually through the works spread the chilling news. A slowly
thickening stream of Swedes, Poles and Hungarians filed out of the big
gates, and Ironville was, in mid-afternoon, populated with a puzzled
multitude that repaired automatically to the saloons. Through pulp
mills and machine shops, through power and pumping stations, the story
went, growing as rapidly as it spread. Time keepers heard it and
office clerks, and the crews of tugs and steamships that lay at the big
dock below the works. And while rumors were widening every minute,
there was a knock at Clark's door and, looking up, he saw the
comptroller who stood quietly, with a check for the week's payroll in
his hand.
"How much?" The voice was admirably impersonal.
"One hundred and ten thousand." The comptroller was a short fat man,
and at the moment quivering with suppressed excitement.
The general manager scribbled his initials on the blue slip, handed it
back without a word, and did not even look up as the official went out.
A few minutes later he walked slowly through the pulp mill, stopping
here and there to speak to superintendents and workmen. The swishing
rasp of the great stones and the steady rumble of turbines brought him
a sense of comfort. He progressed deliberately, and with his usual
keen interest, so that, although hundreds of eyes followed him, not a
man could assume that anything had gone seriously wrong. It was an
hour in which he found and radiated confidence. Here, at least, was
the universal conclusion that all was as it should be. He was on the
bank of the power canal when his secretary approached again.
"What is it this time?"
"Hobbs is at the bank with the payroll check, and has just telephoned
up. I think you'd better speak to him, sir."
Clark's lips pressed tight and his eyes opened a little. Retracing his
steps, he listened to an agitated voice.
"Mr. Brewster states he has no authority to cash this check unless we
cover our overdraft. He would like to talk to you."
"Let him."
Again the receiver spoke, while Clark's face grew suddenly very grim.
"I think you'd better come up and see me," he said shortly.
Then he listened. "Very well," he snapped. His features were like a
mask. "I'm going down to the bank," he went on dryly to the secretary,
"for the first time in his life Mr. Brewster is unable to leave his
office and come up to mine when invited."
He drove into St. Marys followed by the glances of every man and woman
who caught sight of the erect figure. The town was full of confused
and conflicting rumors, but nothing had as yet crystallized. The
appearance of Clark in mid afternoon at the door of the bank, thickened
the air. It was known that people with whom he did business invariably
went to him. Not in years had he been to Brewster. But for all of
that he seemed as cheerful as usual, and took off his gray hat to Mrs.
Worden with accustomed and somewhat formal urbanity. Inside he found
Hobbs, his round, soft face looking unhealthily pallid, and Brewster
with his jaw stuck out, a determined expression on his young features.
"Well, what's the trouble?"
"Nothing very serious." Brewster spoke with a pleasant accent, but he
was confronting the most difficult hour of his life. "Just this check."
"What about it?"
"I can't make any further advances till your present acceptances are
met in Philadelphia. We have half a million of them."
"That payroll has got to be disbursed."
"I'm sorry, but I can't cash that check."
The lines on the older man's face tightened and deepened. "Mr.
Brewster, we have spent some fifteen millions of capital through your
bank. This amount is too small to discuss. Do you realize that, if
you persist, the men will go unpaid for the first time in seven years?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't help that." The young manager began to feel
more fortified.
"Is this because there's a temporary interruption at the rail mill?"
said Clark bitterly. "You're assuming a big responsibility."
"I regret that I can give no reasons, and am only doing what seems best
in the interest of the bank. If the acceptances are met,--and the
first falls due two weeks from to-day--our head office will probably
authorize a further advance, provided we are secured. Under the
circumstances your Philadelphia office should take care of this matter."
"And this is your last word?" snapped Clark with emphasis.
But Brewster had by this time completely pulled himself together. The
most trying moment was passed, and for once the mesmeric influence had
failed. He felt behind him the authority of Thorpe and his own
directors, and revolted at the thought of imperiling his own record.
"You understand," came in Clark's voice, "what happens when men are not
paid--especially the type of many of our employees. The Swede and
Hungarian are apt to be ugly. Further--an unpaid payroll has a bad
effect on a company's securities, to say nothing of the effect on
business confidence in St. Marys. You have, of course, weighed all
this."
Brewster's eyes were very grave and his face flushed. "I'm sorry, but
I'm doing what I take to be my duty," he said with a desperate effort.
The older man's mood changed as though in a flash. "In that case I've
nothing more to say." He got up. "Come on, Hobbs, Mr. Brewster seems
immovable. We'll have to wire Philadelphia for the money." With that
he went briskly out.
The banker looked after him in wonderment. The poignant instant was
over, and he pondered whether, after all, he had done right. His
cipher message sent to Toronto as soon as the news from the works
reached him, was still unanswered, but, he reflected, he had tried to
act on what he believed to be Thorpe's judgment as well as his own.
Should the telegram for which he waited not confirm his decision, there
was time enough to apprise Clark of the fact that night. And just then
the mayor entered the office and sat down, mopping his face.
"What about it?" he demanded presently.
"I don't know any more than you do--possibly not as much."
"Well," said Filmer absently, "there's a lot going round. Some have it
the works are seized for debt, others that there's a mistake in the
rails, others that the Philadelphia directors have resigned. Anyway
half the thing seems to have stopped."
"Not half of it, just the iron and steel section."
"Yes, but that's the big end of the whole show. It was expected to
carry the burden."
"It's still there, isn't it?" said Brewster fretfully.
The mayor glanced at him quickly. Something in the voice suggested
that the bank was involved and that the thing was getting on Brewster's
nerves. "I hope you're all right," he answered evenly, "but I'm
carrying more stuff than I like to think of just now."
He departed feeling quite obviously rather balked of his desire for
inside information. Just outside he met Dibbott.
"I saw Mr. Clark just now," said the latter. "He doesn't seem at all
worried. Of course you've heard the news?"
Filmer nodded. "Yes, and I've a feeling we're going to hear more
before long. Haven't got any Consolidated stock have you?"
"Stock! Never owned a share in my life, but I've a good mind to sell
my place now while the price is up. Look at that, will you!"
The street cars coming down from the works were bulging with the
population of Ironville, who had inconsequently decided to take the
holiday in St. Marys. Hundreds of them were dressed in Sunday best and
bent on an outing; big Slovaks and Poles whose horny fists gripped the
platform rail while they smoked cheap cigars with gaudy labels and
chattered volubly to each other. It was good to be out of Ironville.
On the way down they passed Clark, and with boyish abandon waved their
hats in greeting, Clark smiled back and whirled on. The sight of them
provoked the question in his mind and brought it closer. What if these
men were not paid next week, as they were promised? Returning to his
office, he devoted himself to innumerable details affecting the iron
works. To shut them down was not so simple a thing as he anticipated.
They had acquired a momentum it was difficult to arrest. Then, wiring
in code to Philadelphia for his requirements in cash, he went up to the
big house on the hill and shut himself from all intruders.
On the terrace, overlooking river and works, he walked ceaselessly up
and down, irritated but not alarmed. Some foreign substance had got
into the delicate wheels of progress, and the machine was for the
moment out of adjustment. From where he stood the works were visible,
and while he missed the long illumination of the rail mill and the
pyramidal flame of the converters, there still sparkled the pulp mill
with its long, lighted windows and the gleam of water in the tail race.
Twenty-four hours ago he was sitting on the deck of the Evangeline with
the genial bishop. Now he was very much alone. What would Wimperley
and the rest do in such an emergency? He had never seen them in a
corner. His reverie was interrupted by a message that Manson desired
to see him.
"Riots?" said Clark to himself, then aloud, "Bring him here."
The big man came up, extending a friendly hand. Clark had a curious
dislike for physical, personal contact, even of the slightest, but now
overcame it with difficulty and motioned his visitor to a chair. The
latter sat speechless.
"Well, Mr. Manson?" Clark asked when the silence became too perceptible.
"I came to ask you if there were any prospects of trouble at the
works," said the latter presently. He spoke jerkily, and in a note far
removed from the deep boom of his usual voice.
"Why should you expect any trouble because pay day is postponed for a
week?"