“Good morning, Estrada,” said Hardin with the same meaningless smile.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” The Mexican’s greeting paused at Rickard.
“Mr. Estrada, Mr. Rickard.”
Every one in the office saw Hardin snub his other opportunity. He had betrayed to every one his deep hurt, his raw wound. When he had stepped down, under cover of a resignation, he had saved his face by telling every one that a rupture with Maitland, one of the directors of the reorganized company, had made it impossible for them to serve together, and that Maitland’s wealth and importance to the company demanded his own sacrifice. Two months before Rickard’s appearance, Maitland had been discovered dead in his bath in a Los Angeles hotel. Though no one had been witless enough to speak of their hope to Hardin, he knew that all his force was daily expecting his reinstatement. Rickard’s entrance was another stab to their chief.
“The son of the general?” The new manager held out his hand. “General Estrada, friend of Mexican liberty, founder of steamship companies and father of the Imperial Valley?”
“That makes me a brother of the valley,” Estrada’s smile was sensitive and sweet.
“He did good work in his day,” added Rickard rather stupidly.
Estrada looked at Hardin, hesitated, then passed on to the checker players, and stood behind MacLean.
“I saw your father in Los Angeles.”
MacLean’s eager face flushed. “Did you speak to him? Did you tell him how hard it would be for me to go back?”