“There are others. Men who receive wages like that must expect to have a certain amount of danger to face. Danger is the spice of life.” He leant back in his chair, humming a little tune and watched Mr. Foilet with smiling eyes. Mr. Foilet was wondering whether his chief was personally fond of spice, but he knew better than to say more. He left the room with a vague uneasy feeling at his heart. “A nice concern it will be if anything happens before the New Shaft’s ready,” he muttered; “if it wasn’t for his wonderful luck, I’d have refused.”
So he thought: but in reality he would have done no such thing.
The manager of the Stormby Foundry, which was a private property of Mr. Masters’s, and no company, was the next visitor. He was a tall lank Scotchman with a hardy countenance and a soft heart when not fretted by the roll of the Machine. The question he brought was concerning the selling of some land in the neighbourhood of the works, for the erection of cottages.
“Surely you need no instructions on that point, Mr. Murray,” said Peter a little more curtly than he had spoken to Mr. Foilet.
“There are two offers,” said the Scotchman quietly. “Tennant will give £150 and Fortman £200.”
“Then there is no question.”
“Tennant will build decent cottages of good material and with proper foundations, and Fortman—well, you know what Fortman’s hovels are like.” 132
“No, I don’t,” said Peter drily. “He has never been my landlord.”
Mr. Murray appeared to swallow something, probably a wish, with difficulty.
“They are mere hovels pretending to be villas.”