“Why, you said——” the other began.
“Don’t you know, on jobs of this kind, Sigsbee, that a dozen accidents happen every day? Do you know that we’ll average a dozen deaths a month right here in this camp? A steam shovel breaks, or some chain slips, or maybe there’s a rock slide. If you say the word, I’m sure Martin could arrange everything.”
“That would be very well,” Sigsbee said, weighing the matter calmly, “if we were positive of two things: That Nash is not a spotter, and that he alone knows of our affairs.”
Hooker walked slowly up and down the room, his hands clenched at his sides. Sigsbee, huddled in a chair before the table, watched him narrowly.
“We’ve had smooth sailing for three years,” the foreman said, at length. “And at the best we could only have one more year—possibly eighteen months. I’d like to wash my hands of the whole affair.”
“I’m with you there,” responded Sigsbee. “I’d like to drop the game—drop it before we’re shown up.”
“Well, what’s to prevent it?” asked Hooker, pausing beside the other’s chair. “Why can’t we?”
“We’re in deep—infernally deep,” Sigsbee said gravely. “I’m afraid they’d trace it back. You know, I haven’t the best of reputations since that affair in Chinatown. Once let the rumor get out, and have the newspaper fellows nosing around——” He paused and shrugged. “I’ve a family to consider, too. If Nash should meet with an accident, such as you’ve suggested, how do we know but there might be a dozen others—friends, possibly, who’d out with the story? If he’s a spotter, he’s no fool.”
“Why not pass a little of the long green before his eyes?” the foreman spoke up swiftly. “Most of us fall for that.”
But Sigsbee shook his head. For some time he was steeped in thought, staring across at the opposite wall, his fat white fingers toying with his watch chain.