MacGregor was thinking hard. He knew a little about Bigelow and a good deal more about Higginson. He liked the phrase, too—what was it—oh, “the best engineer on the lakes.”
“Can't you give me a day to think it over, Mr. Halloran?”
“Sorry, but I'm afraid not. We need you right off.”
“What did you say your offer was?”
“What you think is fair. But I'll tell you flatly, we'll pay you more than Bigelow will—five hundred a year more. You have just about comfortable time to get up to your house and change your clothes. I'll meet you at the station.”
“What if Bigelow should make trouble about my contract?” asked MacGregor dubiously.
“Don't you worry a minute about that. We'll back you up to the last notch.”
MacGregor thought it over a little longer. Then he turned his ponderous frame and called to his assistant.
“All right,” he said over his shoulder to Halloran, “I'll meet you at the station.”
At this moment Mr. William H. Babcock was rising from a hotel breakfast in Grand Rapids and reaching for the toothpicks. As he strolled out to the office to buy a paper he picked his teeth and smiled softly.