THE HAFOD UNOS
"Then," said Terry's Syndicate, or such of its members as lounged in Terry's office, looking down on the Lime Street and St. George's Hall pavements as if they had been so many fishermen selecting a likely spot for the casting of a fly, "what about going back to the old idea—coal?"
"Hm!——" (a very dubious "Hm!").—"Far better have another shot at manganese—especially after what's happened——"
What had happened had started remotely enough from Llanyglo. It had started, to be exact, in the Balkans. Much manganese comes from the Balkans; a war there had suddenly made the supply a mere trickle, so that prices had whooped up; and—wonder of wonders—those old workings of Squire Wynne's, farther along the coast, actually looked like paying. Terry's Company, unhappily, had just transferred its rights, and was rather sore about it.
"Wouldn't that be a little too—timely?" a timid member suggested.
"Not if you—er—put it properly. It's only thirty miles away——" The speaker paused from delicacy. "From the real manganese" was understood.
"Might send a geologist down—one we could trust——"
A very young member of the Syndicate hazarded a remark.—"But wouldn't burnt mine-works come dearer than burnt fences?"
They smiled indulgently at him. He was merely suffering from a slight confusion of ideas. Nobody had said anything about mine-works. Then they turned to Terry.
"What do you say, Armfield?" ...