ir, is a most (h)auspicious (h)era, sir. The (h)age of reason
and justice 'as dawned, an'--"

"Oh, get out, Wigglesworth. Haven't you made all your speeches yet? The
time for the speeches is past. Good day."

He turned to his bookkeeper.

"Wickes, bring me the reports turned in by Perrotte, at once."

Mr. Maitland's manner was frankly, almost brutally, imperious. It
was not his usual manner with his subordinates, from which it may
be gathered that Mr. Maitland was seriously disturbed. And with good
reason. In the first place, never in his career had one of his men
addressed him in the cool terms of equality which McNish had used with
him in the recent interview. Then, never had he been approached by
a Grievance Committee. The whole situation was new, irritating,
humiliating.

As to the wages question, he would settle that without difficulty. He
had never skimped the pay envelope. It annoyed him, however, that he had
been forstalled in the matter by this Committee. But very especially he
was annoyed by the recollection of the deliberative, rasping tones of
that cool-headed Scot, who had so calmly set before him his duty. But
the sting of the interview lay in the consciousness that the criticism
of his foreman was probably just. And then, he was tied to Tony Perrotte
by bonds that reached his heart. Had it not been so, he would have made
short work of the business. As it was, Tony would have to stay at all
costs. Mr. Maitland sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the Big
Bluff visible through the window, but his mind lingering over a picture
that had often gripped hard at his heart during the last two years,
a picture drawn for him in a letter from his remaining son, Jack. The
letter lay in the desk at his hand. He saw in the black night that
shell-torn strip of land between the lines, black as a ploughed field,
lurid for a swift moment under the red glare of a bursting shell or
ghastly in the sickly illumination of a Verry light, and over this black
pitted earth a man painfully staggering with a wounded man on his back.
The words leaped to his eyes. "He brought me out of that hell, Dad." He
closed his eyes to shut out that picture, his hands clenched on the arms
of his chair.

"No," he said, raising his hand in solemn affirmation, "as the Lord God
liveth, while I stay he stays."

"Come in," he said, in answer to a timid tap at the office door. Mr.
Wickes laid a file before him. It needed only a rapid survey