“Yes, I’m kind o’ pertick’ler about my tobacco,” he said. “These is a private stock—I get ’em from a friend of mine. I’ll send you over a couple of boxes.”
“They’re better cigars than I can afford to smoke,” remarked the superintendent. “The job of special delegate must pay pretty well.”
Nixon laughed again.
“Oh, so, so,” he said, and tilting his chair back, rammed his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets.
“How long have you held it?”
“Three years—an’ there’s never been a breath of complaint against me. If any man stands square with the brotherhood, it’s me,” and again Nixon grinned sardonically.
Mr. Schofield’s last trace of uncertainty had vanished. He knew his ground now and could advance more surely.
“No,” he went on, slowly, “we won’t reinstate Bassett, and at the same time we’re going to avoid a strike, if we can. I think you remarked the other day that there would be no strike unless you called it.”
“There won’t,” said Nixon, briefly.
“What will happen, then?”