XIX
"Slipped through your fingers like that! Like a—" Leverich's words were not fit for print. He had been away for a couple of days, and now sat tilted back in his office chair, a heavy, leather-covered thing not meant for tilting, his face puffed with anger, his mouth snarling—a wild beast balked of his prey. His eyes, ferociously insolent, dwelt on Justin, who, fine and keen and smiling a little, sat opposite him. Brute anger never had any effect on Justin but to give him a contemptuous, chill self-possession.
"You're sure the agreement's made?"
"Cater's been sending new consignments as fast as they could go for the past three days; he's loaded up with machines."
Leverich swore again. "Confounded fools, not to have made terms with Hardanger first! If we'd only known! If there was only some way to put a spoke in the wheel, even yet!"
"Oh, I've got the spoke, easily enough," said Justin indifferently. "The only trouble is, I can't use it."
"Got a spoke! Why in heaven didn't you say that before?" Leverich came down on the front legs of his chair with a force that sent it rolling ahead on its casters. "What are you sitting here for? What do you mean by telling me that you can't use it?"
"Just what I say. But it's not worth talking about."
"See here, Alexander, could you get our machine in now instead of his?"
"I suppose I might."