Clark got up and paced the terrace, his head thrust forward, his hands
behind his back. There was that in the visitor's manner which puzzled
him. The evident agitation and discomfort, the anxious moving of the
thick arms, the constant shifting of the feet, all pointed to something
that struck deeper than the possibility of a riot. And Manson, he had
reason to know, was no coward.
"I anticipate that it will be less than a week. How many men have you?"
"Thirty, and myself."
"We have twenty guards at the works, also, if need be, there's the
local militia."
"Have you ever seen them?" said the chief constable contemptuously.
"No, but the law is behind them and a certain amount of discipline,"
then, his voice changing abruptly, "Mr. Manson, are you afraid?"
The big man stared at him as though fascinated. His dark face began to
work convulsively in an obvious attempt to voice that which disturbed
him. Clark watched it all.
"Well," he said with ill concealed impatience, "if it's not an
imaginary riot that's troubling you, I'll say good evening. I'm rather
busy at the moment."
At that Manson half lifted himself out of his chair and leaned forward.
"It's the works," he whispered huskily, "are they all going to hell?"
Clark stared at him in open astonishment. It was an absurd thing that
at this moment he should be subjected to a visit from a man who had
never believed in him, but who was now evidently torn by anxiety at the
thought of his failure. There came a swift and silent suggestion, but
the thing was too remote.
"Mr. Manson," he said slowly, "you never took any stock in me or my
efforts, so why worry?"
"But that's just what I did do," croaked the constable, reddening to
his temples. "I invested all I could and," he added dully, "I've got
it now."
"Ah! so that's it?"
"And I'd be grateful if you could tell me--"
"So you said one thing and did another!" The tones were like a knife.
"Well, that's your privilege, and none of my affair, and," he concluded
curtly, "I don't care to discuss it. Good evening."
But Manson was on his feet, too desperate to be denied. "It's not your
affair what I may have said or done? I'm a shareholder--a large one.
I've a right to come here and ask you a question. It's nothing
unreasonable--and you'll answer it." He stood over the smaller man,
dark and threatening.
Clark laughed in his face, till, with that extraordinary perception
which so frequently cleft to the essential essence of things, he
perceived that there was that which was more important than the fact
that Manson had been speculating and would certainly be bitten. His
attitude in public was worth something--at any rate in St. Marys.
Known universally as a critic and pessimist, it would be notable if
now, in the time of crisis, he became a supporter. Manson as a
shareholder did not matter, but officially he did matter. Very swiftly
Clark ran over this in his mind, while the big man waited, no longer a
menace but only a straw borne by the flood which was the creation of
Clark's imagination. There was no doubt in the latter's mind as to the
ultimate solution of present difficulties. He still believed, as he
always believed, in himself, in the country and in his enterprise. So,
very deliberately, he began to talk.
"You have asked me a very extraordinary question--that is from you--but
it appears," here the voice was a little sardonic, "that you had more
confidence in me than you admitted. Now you ask about the future. I
tell you that I never had more faith in the final outcome of affairs
than I have at this moment. There have been difficulties of which the
public knew nothing--and this is the only one which has become common
knowledge. Do you expect any one to build up a concern like this
without anxious moments? You know what St. Marys was seven years ago,
and I remember very distinctly your attitude toward myself. It has
taken seven years," here once more the voice was full of
contempt--"seven years and a crisis, to convert you. Speculators will
doubtless take advantage of this interruption, but I am confident that
long after you and I have passed on, steel rails will still be rolled
at the works. Good evening."
Manson muttered something unintelligible, and moved off down the long
hill that led to St. Marys. For the first time in his life he believed
in Clark, believed in him in that hour when the faith of thousands was
being shaken. He had no conception what a pigmy unit he himself was in
the multitude who followed their remarkable leader. He had no grasp of
the fundamentals of which Clark confidently took hold in the time of
stress. He did not wonder who else was in like case with himself. He
only knew that this man had thrown him the end of a rope, and he
grasped at it with all the strength of his soul, and had no intentions
of loosening his hold.
Later that evening he went in to see Filmer, whose office lights were
on, and here found Dibbott and Worden. The three were talking
earnestly, and as the broad figure loomed in the doorway Dibbott gave a
dry laugh.
"Our pessimist's reputation is looking up. Have you come to crow?"
Manson shook his head and told them very briefly of his visit. There
was no mention of his own speculation. "So after all, the thing is
probably all right," he concluded. "At any rate, Clark doesn't seem
worried, so why should we?"