The lines in his father's face began to relax.
“All right, boy, we'll play it together, and meantime I shall play defence.”
“By Jove, Dad,” cried Jack, in a tone of exultant confidence, “we'll beat 'em. And now here comes that old Irish fire-eater. I'll go. No alliance, Dad, remember.” His father nodded as Jack left the room, to return almost immediately with Mr. McGinnis, evidently quite incoherent with rage.
In the outer office Jack paused beside the desk of the old bookkeeper. From behind the closed door came the sound of high explosives.
“Rough stuff in there, eh, Wickes,” said Jack, with a humorous smile. For some moments he stood listening. “War is a terrible thing,” he added with a grin.
“What seems to be the matter, Mr. Jack?”
Jack laid before him the document sent out by the Allied Unions.
“Oh, this is terrible, Mr. Jack! And just at this time. I am very much afraid it will ruin us.”
“Ruin us? Rot. Don't ever say that word again. We will possibly have a jolly good row. Someone will be hurt and perhaps all of us, more or less, but I don't mean to be beaten, if I know myself,” he added, with the smile on his face that his hockey team loved to see before a match. “Now, Wickes,” continued Jack, “get that idea of failure out of your mind. We are going to win. And meantime, let us prepare for our campaign. Here's a bit of work I want you to do for me. Get four things for me: the wages for the last three years—you have the sheets?”
“Yes, sir.”