Newmark explained carefully that the action, seemingly so abrupt, had really been taking advantage of a lucky opportunity.
“Otherwise,” he finished, “we shouldn't have been able to get the job done for another year, at least. If that big Cronin contract goes through—well, you know what that would mean in the shipyards—nobody would get even a look-in. And McLeod is willing, in the meantime, to give us a price to keep his men busy. So you see I had to close at once. You can see what a short chance it was.”
“It's a good chance, all right,” admitted Orde; “but—why—that is, I thought perhaps we'd job our own freighting for awhile—it never occurred to me we'd build any more vessels until we'd recovered a little.”
“Recovered,” Newmark repeated coldly. “I don't see what 'recovered' has to do with it. If the mill burned down, we'd rebuild, wouldn't we? Even if we were embarrassed—which we're not—we'd hardly care to acknowledge publicly that we couldn't keep up our equipment. And as we're making twelve or fifteen thousand a year out of our freighting, it seems to me too good a business to let slip into other hands.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Orde, a trifle helplessly.
“Therefore I had to act without you,” Newmark finished. “I knew you'd agree. That's right: isn't it?” he insisted.
“Yes, that's right,” agreed Orde drearily.
“You'll find copies of the contract on your desk,” Newmark closed the matter. “And there's the tax lists. I wish you'd run them over.”
“Joe,” replied Orde, “I—I don't think I'll stay down town this morning. I—”
Newmark glanced up keenly.