The foreman looked puzzled.
"I've just been telling you—he's all right."
"That's so. Only, back east, when a horse jockey gets frothy about the good points of his horse, we look sharp."
The foreman grew impatient.
"You haven't told me whether to hang up ten or not."
"I'm not going to. You are foreman of the mill. Put on anyone you want; fire anyone you want. It's nothing to me; only," he looked hard, "you know what we're running this outfit for."
The foreman appeared defiant. Guilty thoughts were spurring him to unwise defence.
"If the ore ain't pay I can't get it out."
"I'll attend to the ore, that's my business. Get out what there is in it, that's yours." He leaned forward to his papers.
The foreman shifted uneasily. His defence was not complete. He was not sure that he had been attacked. He knew Morrison of the Blue Goose. He knew the workings of the mill. He had thought he knew the old man. He was not so sure now. He was not even sure how much or how little he had let out. Perhaps Pierre's words had rattled him. He shifted from foot to foot, twirling his hat on his fingers. He half expected, half hoped, and half waited for another opening. None came. Through the muffled roar of the stamps he was conscious of the sharp scratch of the superintendent's pen. Then came the boom of the big whistle. It was change of shift. The jar of the office door closing behind him was not heard. At the mill he found Morrison.