"Good-morning," said their host. His voice was as nearly cheerful as it was ever. "Sit down."
They took their places at the table, where there was a pad of scribbling paper and a freshly sharpened pencil before each. Their host sat at the head of the table, his hands flat upon the table-top, their fingers extended, his elbows pointing ceilingward.
Rivington began at the midst of what worried him.
"It's a terrible thing!" he groaned. "Think of it; twenty-five people—and the women too!"
Hallett's comment was almost a bark.
"As soon as the coroner's jury lets 'em down easy," he said, "we've got to see that everybody's fired, from the division-superintendent to the president of the road; that's what we've got to do. There's one kind of carelessness that's not much better than murder."
"Twenty-five people!" repeated Rivington. The numbers seemed to hypnotize him; he made a futile gesture. "And the morning papers—— Their tone—— I don't like it."
The man at the head of the table watched them both, but said nothing.
"Oh, the newspapers never worry me," said Hallett. "We can stop all but one or two, and nobody cares what they say, anyhow. They've been talkin' for years. They've got to fill their columns."
"Then there's the Board meeting," said Rivington. "Next Thursday—— I don't see—— Really I don't."