“Help you out? How in the name of all that is reasonable could I help you out? What is all the yarn about? Of course I know it isn't true. Where's Maitland?”
“Search me,” said Vic. “All I know is that I hit upon that Scotch Johnny out in the hall—he nearly wrenched an arm off me and did everything but bite—spitting out incoherent gaspings indicating that Maitland had 'gone awa' wi' his gur-r-l, confound him!' and suggesting the usual young Lochinvar stuff. You know—nothing in it, of course. But what was I to do? Some tale was necessary! Fortunately or unfortunately, brother Tony sprang to the thing I call my mind and—well, you know the mess I made of it. But Hugh, remember, for heaven's sake, make talk about something—about the match—and get that girl quietly home. I bag the back seat and Adrien. It is hard on me, I know, but fifteen minutes more of Patsy and I shall be counting my tootsies and prattling nursery rhymes. Here they come,” he breathed. “Now, 'a little forlorn hope, deadly breach act, if you love me, Hardy.' Play up, old boy!”
And with commendable enthusiasm and success, Hugh played up, supported—as far as his physical and mental condition allowed—by the enfeebled Vic, till they had safely deposited their charges at the Rectory door, whence, refusing an invitation to stop for cocoa, they took their homeward way.
“'And from famine, pestilence and sudden death,' and from the once-over by that penetrating young female, 'good Lord, deliver us,'” murmured Vic, falling into the seat beside his friend. “Take me home to mother,” he added, and refused further speech till at his own door. He waved a weak adieu and staggered feebly into the house.
CHAPTER XI
THE NEW MANAGER
Grant Maitland sat in his office, plainly disturbed in his mind. His resolute face, usually reflecting the mental repose which arises from the consciousness of a strength adequate to any emergency, carried lines which revealed a mind which had lost its poise. Reports from his foremen indicated brooding trouble, and this his own observation within the last few weeks confirmed. Production was noticeably falling low. The attitude of the workers suggested suspicion and discontent. That fine glow of comradeship which had been characteristic of all workers in the Maitland Mills had given place to a sullen aloofness and a shiftiness of eye that all too plainly suggested evil forces at work.
During the days immediately preceding and following the Great Match, there had been a return of that frank and open bearing that had characterised the employees of the Maitland Mills in the old days, but that fleeting gleam of sunshine had faded out and the old grey shadow of suspicion, of discontent, had fallen again. To Maitland this attitude brought a disappointment and a resentment which sensibly added to his burden, already heavy enough in these days of weakening markets and falling prices. In his time he had come through periods of financial depression. He was prepared for one such period now, but he had never passed through the unhappy experience of a conflict with his own employees. Not that he had ever feared a fight, but he shrank from a fight with his own men. It humiliated him. He felt it to be a reflection upon his system of management, upon his ability to lead and control, indeed, upon his personality. But, more than all, it grieved him to feel that he had lost that sense of comradeship which for forty years he had been able to preserve with those who toiled with him in a common enterprise.
A sense of loneliness fell upon him. Like many a man, self-made and self-sufficing, he craved companionship which his characteristic qualities of independence and strength seemed to render unnecessary and undesired. The experience of all leaders of men was his, for the leader is ever a lonely man.