CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning Roger reached the office at half past nine but Hilary was already there. It was the first morning of a clear sunshine after weeks of rain, and Hilary, even more groomed and manicured than usual, looked as if he, too, had emerged into a new mood. There was a new crispness in his manner; business efficiency sparkled in his quick movements, his hasty finishing of a memorandum, the way he nodded to Roger.
"Just a moment, Barton. I'll be through in a jiffy." Usually Roger passed on to his own partitioned end of the room, and began on work arranged the night before. But now he sat down and waited for Hilary. Seated so, to one side and just a little behind Hilary, Roger saw him spiritually foreshortened in the reflection of last evening. He looked tight and secure, encased in his own assurances of safety as in a spiritual corset. In a moment he had blotted the paper and turned to Roger.
"Well," he began genially, "we didn't put it over, did we? Not discouraged, I hope?"
"Not at all."
Hilary seemed balked, reconsidered what he had arranged for his next sentence, and said instead:
"I rather over-reached myself in having Tom O'Connell. He's an uncertain quantity, a regular firebrand. And he isn't the power he thinks he is. When it comes to a pinch, the men will desert him. They're more level-headed than he gives them credit for."
"The men forced to scab," Roger inquired, and, at the sharp look Hilary darted to him, added "by the pinch of hunger?"
Hilary tapped for a moment, then made his decision with a quick frown.
"Barton, just where do you stand on that meeting last night?"