Mr. Schofield’s face was flushed and he opened his lips for an angry retort, but thought better of it and closed them again. Then he laughed.
“All right,” he said. “Go ahead. Kill the goose. But were you serious about that strike?”
“Never more serious in my life.”
“When will it be called?”
“When I give the word,” said Nixon, “not before.”
And he cast at the superintendent a glance full of meaning.
The latter stared at him, then down at his desk, drumming with absent fingers.
“Well,” he said, at last, looking up, “don’t call it for a couple of days. I’ll have to ask instructions from headquarters.”
“All right,” agreed Nixon, rising and slipping into his coat. “Let me see—this is Wednesday. I’ll come in Friday morning at this time for your answer. How’ll that suit?”
Mr. Schofield nodded curtly, and with a bland wave of the hand to the others, Nixon went to the door and let himself out.