It was now or never for his protest. Mentally he wriggled like a kitten held under water by some callous child and as desperately. He would drown if he could not reach the aid of two life-buoys, courage to outface Sir Philip and wits to put words to his thoughts.
“No, sir, that is not to be questioned,” he heard himself, unexpectedly, say, and Sir Philip’s warm handshake sealed the bargain. He had not meant to say it; he did not mean to stand by what he had said, but his hand responded heartily to his father’s and his eye met Sir Philip’s gaze with the charming smile of frank, ingenuous youth.
He was thinking that six years were a long time and that there were men who had come to great honor after they had broken vows.
CHAPTER II—THE VOICE FROM THE STREET
THE room held a grand piano, a great fire and two men of fifty who were playing chess. The stout, bullet-headed man with the mustache which did not conceal the firmness of his mouth was Tom Bradshaw; the lean man with the goatee beard, who wore spectacles, was Walter Pate. Both were autocrats in their way. Tom ran the Spinners’ Union and was M. P. in his spare time, Walter ran music in Staithley Bridge and had no spare time except, on rare occasions, for chess.
Tom made a move. “That’s done you, you beggar,” he said, gleefully rising and filling a pipe.
Walter’s fine hand flickered uncertainly over the board. He saw defeat ahead. “If I weren’t a poor man, I’d have the law on you,” he said.
“You can’t play chess, Walter. It’s a question of brain.”