“And you remember how much she thought of me?” Pilchard spoke slowly. It was impossible to tell why he did so. Was it because he did not care to discuss the woman he loved with an outsider like Swan, or was it because he was going on tiptoe, because he wondered what he must say next, because he was waiting, hoping that something unexpected would develop?
Swan, however, dropped the question of Pilchard’s marriage.
“You mean, I suppose, that you won’t work at night.”
“I can’t. I’m not well enough.”
Swan grunted and sighed and stretched all his limbs, shaking his great shoulders as if he were trying to shake out the ague. Then he cleared his throat again and turned to Pilchard.
“See here, Pilchard, it’s time we came to some understanding.”
“Understanding?” Pilchard queried in a surprised voice.
“Yes, about this job. About the pay—m—not so much the pay as the credit. This job ought to give a man a name. It’s been a big piece of engineering and devilish hard work to put it through. I’ve planned the whole thing and watched every stroke of what’s been done, and I deserve at least half the credit, if not all.”
Swan spoke in a brutal, masterful way. Perhaps he realized as he did so how completely the acknowledgment of his services depended on Pilchard’s generosity. Pilchard alone had signed the contract, and Swan’s existence was no more to the company than the existence of the other workmen. Moreover, the eleven mechanics they had brought down had all been carried off by fever, and there was no one else who, in case of necessity, could testify to the splendid work Swan had done, practically alone. All this was in Pilchard’s mind as well as Swan’s, and all this suddenly showed Pilchard how completely Swan was in his power. He must play a careful game.
“Why, what the devil do you mean?” he asked, speaking rather angrily.