“And it is Hardin’s position that you want me to fill?” His voice sounded queer to himself, dry, mocking, as if any one should know what an absurd thing he was being asked to do. He felt Marshall’s sharp Indian eyes on him, as if detecting a pettiness. Well, he didn’t care how Marshall interpreted it. That place wasn’t for him.
“I want you in control down there.” Rickard knew he was being appraised, balanced all over again. It made no difference—
“I’m sorry,” he was beginning, when Marshall cut in.
“Good lord, you are not going to turn it down?”
He met Marshall’s incredulous stare. “It’s a job I’d jump at under most circumstances. But I can’t go, sir.”
Tod Marshall leaned back the full swing of his swivel chair, blankly astounded. His eyes told Rickard that he had been found wanting, he had white blood in his veins.
“It is good of you to think of me—pshaw, it is absurd to say these things. You know that I know it is an honor to be picked out by you for such a piece of work. I’d like to,—but I can’t.”
The president of railroads, who knew men, had been watching the play of feature. “Take your time,” he said. “Don’t answer too hastily. Take your time.”
He was playing the fool, or worse, before Marshall, whom he respected, whose partisanship meant so much. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t tell that story—he knew that Marshall would brush it aside as a child’s episode. He couldn’t make it clear to the man whose stare was balancing him why he could not oust Tom Hardin.
“Is it a personal reason?” Marshall’s gaze had returned to his ring-making.