"No," said Manson, flushing, and went on to promulgate the reasons for
his hopes. The others said nothing, but he could see they were
impressed. Presently he went out on a midnight round of inspection,
and, as the door closed behind him, Worden nodded thoughtfully.
"For the first time in seven years he seems reasonable in this
connection. After all, if we get off the handle it will be a mighty
bad example. How about it, Mr. Mayor?"
"Well," said Filmer, caressing his glossy whiskers, "I always believed
in Clark and I guess I do now. If he were trying to make money for
himself out of this thing we'd know it, but he isn't. Gentlemen, the
judge is right--we've got to hold the town together."
On the corner they met Bowers, the Company's solicitor, who was walking
slowly home smoking a peaceful cigar.
"What's this?" he said, grinning. "Looks like old times to see you
three together."
Filmer had a sudden thought. "Do any of you chaps remember what
anniversary this is?"
The others searched their brains and gave it up.
"Seven years ago to-night there was a certain notable meeting in the
town hall."
"And now there's one in the corner. We've come down in the world," put
in Dibbott.
"Possibly, but possibly not. I was just thinking of all that has
happened in seven years. It should prevent us from getting rattled."
The mayor turned to Bowers, "Seen Clark to-day?"
"Haven't seen or heard of him for three days," answered the lawyer
shortly--then, because he wanted to avoid being pumped, "good
night--I'm for my blameless couch."
They looked after him and at each other. "Seen Belding?" asked Dibbott
of the judge.
"No, he's down in Chicago. I think he's buying machinery. Now it's
late and if I don't go home too, I'll get into trouble." He turned
towards the old house by the river, and halted a few steps off. "Good
night, you fellows, I feel better."
Thus it came that while a brooding, gray eyed man paced his terrace
with his eyes fixed on the far white line of the rapids, whose call was
indistinguishable at this distance, there was spreading almost under
the shadow of the works a novel spirit of confidence in himself and his
vast enterprise. It was not till a sudden question arose, that St.
Marys realized the prodigious meaning of their new city and how
lavishly all Clark's promises had been redeemed. In the hour of
anxiety they leaned on him more than ever before. This new birth--this
upholding trust--was conceived at the very moment when Wimperley and
the others were gathered in harassed counsel, and through Philadelphia
and the surrounding state was broadening a dark cloud of rumor that
carried swift fear to thousands of hearts. But it was not fear that
came to the keen brain of Henry Marsham.
By eleven that night Clark had heard nothing from his head office. The
strain became too great, and he went into a little room off the library
where an extension of the private wire had been carried up from the
works. There was once a time when he could send and receive in the
Morse code, so now he sat down and laid a somewhat uncertain finger on
the tilting key.
"Phil -- Phil -- Phil."
Instantly and to his surprise, came the reply.
"Sma -- Sma -- Sma."
"Is -- Wimp -- there?" The thing began to come a little easier.
"Yes."
"Tell -- Wimp -- I -- want -- answer -- funds -- for -- payroll."
Clark got this off laboriously, conscious that however clear might be
the message, the wire was a poor transmitter as compared to eye and
voice.
"Wimp -- says -- meeting -- going -- on -- now -- cannot -- act --
before -- to-morrow -- Get that."
"Yes," flashed the plunging reply.
"Wimp -- waiting -- your -- report -- defect -- in -- rails."
Clark's brows wrinkled and he bent over the key.
"Cannot -- send -- report -- till -- several -- chemical -- anal --
anal -- "
"Yes -- analyses -- I -- get -- you -- are -- complete -- is -- that --
it."
"Yes." Clark breathed a sigh of relief. His brow was wet.
"When -- will -- that -- be -- Wimp -- asks."
"Three -- days."
"Wimp -- says -- hurry -- up -- things -- shaky -- here -- expect --
attack -- by -- bears -- have tried -- to -- place -- rails --
elsewhere -- but -- not -- successful. Wimp -- says -- good night."
Clark's eyes sparkled with anger and he hammered the key. There were
other things he wanted to say--and must say. But for all his repeated
calls there was only silence, till in an interval, while he rubbed his
throbbing fingers, the receiver began to tilt.
"Wimp -- says -- good night --" it announced with metallic finality.
He got up and stood staring at the thing for a moment, his face heavy
with anger, the group in Wimperley's office vividly before him. He
could see the cold features of Birch, sharpened by the tenseness of the
hour into a visage bloodless and inflexible, with thin tight lips and
narrow expressionless eyes. He could see Stoughton, red with
discomfort and resentment; Riggs' excited and anxious little face, and
Wimperley himself, cast with a new severity; all supremely conscious of
that which probably must be faced on the morrow. And what about
Marsham? Tottering was now their faith in the essential future of the
works and the great cycle of their operations. The wire had
transmitted their decisions, but over its yellow filament had also
trickled their apprehension. With a touch of cynicism he recalled the
congratulatory messages--the very first it had carried.
He went out on the terrace again, seeking the black bulk of the rail
mill in the medley of structures down at the works. Presently he found
and scrutinized it. Somewhere in its gloom lurked an error, or else in
the great furnaces that shouldered nakedly into the moonlit air. With
a sudden sense of fatigue, he turned to his bedroom.
"At any rate the chief constable is with me," he soliloquized
sardonically, "and that's something."
In five minutes he was sleeping profoundly.