“Neat point,” Stacey remarked. “Jeffries owns two-thirds of the common himself. I’ve seen the list of the other stock-holders. There is one widow among them. I’d be willing to defray her losses myself.”
“I’m sorry, son.” (Mr. Carroll’s voice was regretful.) “I’d like to have got this through for you—and because I think it’s right, though of course my convictions on the labor and capital situation in general remain unchanged.”
“Of course.”
“But I did what I could.”
“I know it, dad,” said Stacey. “Edwards will know that too. Thanks, just as much as if you’d brought it off. Good-bye. See you at dinner.”
He hung up the receiver, then looked across at Edwards. “Nothing doing,” he said, his face impassive.
Edwards’ face had flushed a dull crimson, and his jaw was set, so that there was an effect of massive squareness about his head. His eyes glowed.
“Yes,” he replied thickly, “so I judged. Bombs, Carroll, nice little hand-grenades,—that’s what’s wanted!”
“I agree,” said Stacey coolly. “It would be a pleasure to toss one at Jeffries; but that’s no use. Never was. The reaction swings you back to below where you started.”
“You’re so damned cold-blooded about it!” Edwards cried furiously. “Can’t you put yourself—”