"Who is the other one?" asked Wickersham.
"I am not counting myself--yet," said Keith, quietly. "It would not be necessary. The old squire and Dave Dennison would take my life if I interfered with their rights."
"You are prudent," said Ferdy.
"I am forbearing," said Keith.
Wickersham's tone was as insolent as ever, but as he leaned over and reached for a match, Keith observed that his hand shook slightly. And the eyes that were levelled at Keith through the smoke of his cigarette were unsteady.
Next morning Ferdy Wickersham had a long interview with Plume, and that night Mr. Plume had a conference in his private office with a man--a secret conference, to judge from the care with which doors were locked, blinds pulled down, and voices kept lowered. He was a stout, youngish fellow, with a low forehead, lowering eyes, and a sodden face. He might once have been good-looking, but drink was written on Mr. William Bluffy now in ineffaceable characters. Plume alternately cajoled him and hectored him, trying to get his consent to some act which he was unwilling to perform.
"I don't see the slightest danger in it," insisted Plume, "and you did not use to be afraid. Your nerves must be getting loose."
The other man's eyes rested on him with something like contempt.
"My nerves're all right. I ain't skeered; but I don't want to mix up in your ---- business. If a man wants trouble with me, he can get it and he knows how to do it. I don't like yer man Wickersham--not a little bit. But I don't want to do it that way. I'd like to meet him fair and full on the street and settle which was the best man."
Plume began again. "You can't do that way here now. That's broke up. But the way I tell you is the real way." He pictured Wickersham's wealth, his hardness toward his employés, his being a Yankee, his boast that he would injure Keith and shut up his mine.