Mr. Jeffries laughed. “That’s shrewd of you, Stacey,” he remarked. “But, if so, you’ll admit it’s not very successful.”
Stacey, wary because of the note of flattery, continued to gaze at him. How keen the man was! Not once had he said: “You young men who’ve come back with socialistic ideas . . .” He had met Stacey with apparent candor and with no touch of tolerant superiority. His manner proclaimed equality,—but perhaps just faintly over-proclaimed it.
“You won’t even consider yielding,” Stacey asked, “so that these men can support their families—now—in winter?”
“I can’t, my boy. It’s to your credit, though, that you take the thing so much to heart. I admire you for it.”
The “my boy” and the admiration were under the circumstances a little too much for Stacey. The muscles of his face hardened almost imperceptibly, and he leaned back in his chair.
“Then, Mr. Jeffries, I’ve got to fight you,” he said coolly.
The other’s expression did not alter, no glint of amusement shone in his eyes; but he considered Stacey intently. “I’m sorry for that,” he returned after a moment, “but I guess I can only say: Go to it! I know it will be a fair fight, anyway.”
“No,” said Stacey, “it won’t be. I want to warn you.”
The other’s gaze sharpened. “Well?” he asked quietly.
“Mr. Jeffries,” Stacey inquired, “do you remember a young woman named Ethel Wyatt?”