There was a momentary silence, during which Alex imagined the two strangers looking questioningly at one another. Then one of them spoke.
“Look here, whatever you get, we will give you a hundred dollars a month extra to put this machine out of order two or three times a week. Nothing very bad, but just enough to lose two or three hours’ work each time. We are—well, never mind who we are. The thing stands this way: We have a big bet on that the K. & Z. will win in this building race for Yellow Creek, and—well, you see the point, I guess. What do you say?”
During the pause that followed Alex waited breathlessly, and with growing disappointment. Was the oiler considering the bribe?
“Well,” said the oiler at length, “is that your best offer? Couldn’t you make it a thousand?”
“A thousand! Nonsense—”
“Two thousand, then.”
“What do you mean—”
“Just this!” cried the oiler, and simultaneously there was a rush of feet and a sound of blows. Exultingly Alex was scrambling forth to go to the oiler’s assistance, when just above him was a crash of falling bodies, and a figure bounded over the side of the car and rolled sprawling down the embankment.
It was the plucky oiler, and Alex shrank back in horror as the man came to a stop flat on his back, and lay immovable, blood trickling from a wound over his eyes.
Overhead was the sound of someone getting to their feet. “He nearly got you,” said a voice.